


One-Sided Conversations

by northerntrash



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Family Feels, Fluff, M/M, Slow Burn, Thorin should really just go and see a therapist rather than talking to comatose strangers, as minimal angst as possible, explicit scenes in chapter 31, not a somnophilia story, with a happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-21
Updated: 2014-08-06
Packaged: 2018-02-05 15:49:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 38
Words: 94,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1823875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/northerntrash/pseuds/northerntrash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Thank you for listening," Thorin said, getting to his feet. "I hope to be able to return the favour, one day."</p><p>The man on the bed didn't respond, but since he'd been in a coma for longer than Thorin had known him, that wasn't entirely surprising.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is based off shamingcow's amazing idea -- I just have the honour of scribbling it down. As always, thank you lovely, for batting Bagginshield ideas back and forth with me on a daily basis. :D

Thorin wasn’t entirely sure where he was going; he had told Frerin he was leaving to get coffee, but as soon as he had shut the door of the hospital room - _shut,_ not slammed, despite what the expressions of the passing staff were implying - behind him he had turned away from the loud and busy cafeteria in the opposite direction, unable to face either the watery Americanos or the lined faces of tired, unhappy hospital visitors and staff that the café would offer him. He’d been through all this before, only months previously, and he was not prepared to do it again.

At this point it seemed as if he might end up leaving with two death certificates rather than a single birth one, and that thought only increased the unshifting ache of regret in his chest, the knowledge that he was still failing, even eighteen years after he had first felt the bitter taste of loss.

The thought of anyone, _anyone_ offering him a sympathetic smile or a word of empathy was too much.

The white linoleum floor reflected the strip lighting, the bright glow adding to the headache that had been building in his head all day without a break.

Avoiding the eyes of all that he passed, he wandered along the long, quiet corridors.

Hospitals were an unnecessary labyrinth, he thought: there was never a simple plan, but rather a maze of interlocking corridors and stairways, as if they didn’t want people to know where they were going, as if they somehow thought that being lost would make the experience in some way easier. Maybe it did for some people - maybe if you could distract yourself with floor plans and illogical sign posting, you might forget why you were actually here.

Perhaps that was just him, though; Frerin had always said he had an awful sense of direction.

He felt limp, washed out, as if he would sleep for a year if only he could bring himself to close his eyes; if he could, he would have slept through the entirety of the _previous_ year. It had brought too many loads to his already heavy shoulders, he thought; he was bending to the point of breaking.

Some days he felt as if his back were physically bent, that he was walking around hunched over with the weight of it all.

He scrubbed a hand through his hair, messy from too many hours of running his hands through it already.

A passing doctor shot him a small, sympathetic smile, and it was altogether suddenly too much: he saw an open doorway, and an empty room, and ducked inside it, shutting the door quietly behind himself and throwing his body down in a chair against the far wall, the back of it hitting the pale blue wallpaper with an audible noise. Silence. He needed silence. 

He needed five minutes without having to look at Fili curled up and fast asleep under Thorin's coat on an uncomfortable chair because there was no where else for him to go, five minutes without Frerin's foot-tapping and Vivi's wide, fearful eyes and the murmurs of doctors needing responses, needing agreement, needing to  _know_  things that he just couldn't bring to the front of his mind right now.Five minutes without the vibration of his own fear, running from his mind and down his spine until every bone in his body felt distended by it, out of size and off kilter, leaving him spinning on his own axis of calm.

He closed his eyes.

He needed to sleep, and he needed to eat, and he needed to shut down his brain for a few hours so that he could process what had happened, so he could get a hold of himself enough to stop himself from acting as if he was already grieving, when there was nothing  _yet_ to grieve. 

He opened his eyes again, his gaze dragging across the room, and he froze.

What he had taken to be an empty room was in fact occupied – very much so – by a person in the bed, lying completely still, wired to a host of mutely humming machinery. The room was bare of the usual paraphanalia of a patient, without cards or bouquets or books; there was no suitcase on the small rack in the corner and no dinner tray on the fold out table, although he had seen the staff dispensing evening meals when he had been wandering. 

Just the figure on the bed, nothing more than the contours of a body beneath layers of sheets, and the shadow of hair on a pillow; he could see little else.

“I…” he started, meaning to apologise for bursting in, but the door clicked open before he could say anything, and a nurse walked in, his neat, silver hair pushed back from his face. The nurse stared blankly at him for a moment in surprise, before smiling warmly.

“My apologies,” he said, reaching for the clipboard hanging on the end of the bed. “I didn’t expect to see anyone in here – he doesn’t get many visitors.”

Thorin shifted a little in the uncomfortable seat, feeling entirely wrong – he shouldn’t be here, in the room of some man that he didn’t even know. He shouldn’t be here, in general: he was supposed to be at home, in the flat around the corner from their sprawling family house, where Dis' car should still have been intact on the driveway. It was a Sunday - he should be getting ready to go around to Dis and Vivi's for dinner, as they did every week. He should be ready to read to Fili, to nag Frerin about his own doctor's appointment this next week, going over his sketched designs that he would need to have sent off to the smith first thing Monday morning. 

Not here.

“No?” he said, when the nurse glanced back at him, clearly waiting for a response of one kind or another as he checked the readings on the machines surrounding the bed. His voice didn't sound like his own, hoarse and unsteady, but the nurse didn't seem to notice, continuing with the efficiency of someone well used to their task.

The nurse shook his head. “He got a few when he first came in, but he doesn’t have any immediate family and most people…” he trailed off, and sighed. “It’s been months now, and it is a big commitment for people, to keep coming in. Particularly when… well, when you don’t know if he’ll ever recover.”

Thorin nodded, and his response must have been enough, because the nurse smiled, and began turning down the bedding.

He averted his eyes as the man's chest came into view, and the nurse undid the ties of his hospital gown to check something, humming a nod of approval at whatever it was that he saw - stitches, perhaps, or something worse.

“I’m sure he’d really appreciate you coming to visit.”

Thorin wondered for a moment if he should confess, that he didn't know the man and hadn't meant to even be there, but the sudden weighty sorrow in the gaze that was shot to him was enough to halt his tongue. What would it accomplish, other than to upset one tired looking member of staff? 

"Do you know him well? I'm not sure I've seen you here before?"

He phrased it as a question, for which Thorin was grateful, and he averted his eyes as he shook his head. The nurse seemed to take that for what it was, a quiet admission that he didn't want to talk, and simply covered the man up again. He made a note of something on the clipboard, and shot Thorin a small smile as he replaced it and headed back towards the door.

He hesitated for a moment in the doorway, looking back between Thorin and the bed.

“I'll leave you to it, then. He… you don’t have to sit over here, you know. They think that hearing people talk can help. We leave the radio on for him, sometimes. You can go over, sit closer to him.”

Thorin nodded, not quite trusting himself to say anything. The nurse continued to smile at him for a long moment, and Thorin pulled himself to his feet.

If he could, he would have left, but right now the thought of disappointing the nurse was just another weight to settle around his neck.

He took a step towards the bed.

The nurse closed the door with a quiet click behind him, leaving Thorin feeling perhaps even worse than he had done when he had first barged into the room. Not only had he managed to interrupt the quiet of what was apparently some poor bloke in a coma, he had also unintentionally convinced a well-meaning nurse that he was here to see the man, when in reality he had just been trying to hide from his own responsibilities and emotions. 

He really hadn't needed more guilt, today of all days. 

He took the clipboard that the nurse had replaced, glancing to the admission date: three and a half months ago.

The man in the bed was pale and thin, though there was a certain softness about his features that suggested he had been a little plumper before he had been admitted to the hospital'; he supposed that kind of thing was normal, in comatose patients, though his medical knowledge was limited to the occasional re-run of an old House episode. It was difficult to gauge the man's height from where he was lying, sheets covering most of him, but Thorin thought he would be shorter than he was, slighter, too. There was something vulnerable about the way he was lying there, flat on his back rather than curled slightly as you would expect from someone who was merely sleeping.

“I am sorry,” he told the man, “for interrupting you.”

The man did not respond, and Thorin found himself staring at that blank, smooth face for a moment. It was strangely ageless, stripped of all care and feeling; he could have been ten years older than Thorin, or ten years younger. He had no way of knowing. 

“I… I just needed to sit down somewhere quiet for a while, without anyone talking to me or asking if there was anything they could do, or…”

He shook his head, before glancing back at the bed. The man’s hair was close cropped to his head, no doubt to make things easier for the nurses: it was somewhere between brown and blonde, without quite being either, and had a slight softness to it even when it was this short that suggested that it might curl if allowed to grow longer. 

There were slight lines at the corners of his mouth, as if he had smiled a lot, but now his face was slack, expressionless.

There was no reaction to his presence and with one last glance to the door, Thorin settled down in the chair next to the bed, flicking through the clipboard of notes once more.

Most of it was in technical, medical language that he didn’t understand: there seemed to be a rota of some sort, and a list of things with long names that Thorin suspected might have been medications of some kind or another, but he came across things he could understand, here and there, some typed and some in the half illegible script of a no-doubt harried doctor.

_Comatose condition_

_Head injury_

_Non-responsive_

_B. Baggins_

He closed the folder before he could pry any further: it was not this man’s responsibility to provide him with distraction in times like these, even if it was much needed and, in all likelihood, he would never actually know.

“I’m not actually here to visit you,” Thorin started again, “I just didn’t know how to tell the nurse that. I’m here with my sister. She’s…” he trailed off again, the creeping exhaustion of days without sleep settling over him. The fear he’d been trying to fight since the call had come early that morning still pressed down on his chest, making it a little hard to breathe.

“She was in a car accident,” he told the sleeping man. “She went into premature labour. The baby made it out, and they think he'll be okay, but they said they need to keep him in for several weeks, if not months.”

The man – Mr B. Baggins – didn’t say anything.

Of course.

Thorin tipped his head back, closing his eyes.

“She’s… our parents died when she was twelve, and I was nineteen, I took over legal guardianship. Of her and my brother.”

He fought for a moment to stop his face from showing how he felt, but then he remembered: there was no one to see. He screwed his eyes shut.

“My brother nearly died just three months ago. I thought I was going to lose him, like our parents. It was my fault, I was supposed to pick him up, but I was late… And now her, the doctors told us she might die, she’s in surgery now and...”

By this point people had normally jumped in, with reassuring words or sympathetic smiles or – worse – unwanted physical contact. He’d had more patted shoulders and awkward, one-armed embraces after his parents had died than he had known what to do with.

The grey afternoon did little to light up the small hospital room, the muted beeping of the machines a strangely soothing background noise. He supposed he might have spent too many hours in the hospital in recent months if the sound of hospital equipment was actually relaxing.

There were flowers on the windowsill; silk ones.

He wondered if they were from the hospital, or from a visitor: perhaps one that didn’t visit too often, and thought that their guilt at infrequent visits might be assuaged by a present that lasted.

It made him feel oddly annoyed.

“My brother was mugged, outside a train station: they stole his bag but he tried to fight back, and they had a knife. I was going to pick him up, he’d been away for work, but I was late.”

He paused, and frowned.

“I don’t know why I am telling you this.”

Thorin waited a moment longer, still half expecting the man to wake, to turn to him, to respond.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, getting to his feet. “I’ll leave you be.”

But as he shut the door behind him again he felt an odd sense of calm wash over him, as if he had taken a long nap in a cool, dark room.

He squared his shoulders, feeling a little better, and made his way back to the rest of his family, to wait for news.  

 

\--

_Seven weeks later –_

He became vaguely aware of a strange beeping sound, and the uncomfortable warmth of too much bedding, as if he had been lying too still on a warm summer night for far too long.

He frowned, and tried to shift, but his body felt as if a great weight were pressing down on it, and it was near impossible to move his limbs even a little.

“Don’t worry,” came a calm, soothing voice, lilting and quiet. “Don’t try and move too much, just try to open your eyes.”

He tried to answer, but his mouth felt incredibly dry, and he couldn’t quite get his tongue to work like it was supposed to.

Eyes. The voice had said that he should open his eyes.

It was far harder than it should have been.

Everything felt as if it should hurt, but remained numb at the same time. What had happened?

The light was almost blinding when he eventually managed to open his eyes, the world swimming slowly into focus again.

The only thing he saw, before he was forced to close his eyes again, were the pale orange-gold of flowers, slightly wilting, in a vase by his bed. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, you guys get a super quick update because you're all so nice (and we need Crucible distractions) 
> 
> As always, many millions of thanks to coww, and come hit me up on tumblr if you want to chat: northerntrash.tumblr.com

Thorin had not meant to go back.

He really, honestly hadn’t: he’d felt bad enough the first time around for wandering in to the man’s room without him making the whole situation worse by returning again, and had things gone badly that day, he probably never would have. But the doctor had eventually appeared in the doorway, after hours of sitting uncomfrotably around with nothing to do but let the worst case scenarios run through their heads; she was still in her scrubs from surgery, with a fierce sort of smile on her face, all joy and gratitude and exhaustion and anger rolled into one.

“She pulled through,” she told them. “She’s going to have to stay in a while so we can keep an eye on her, but we’ve stopped the bleeding and we think she’s going to be okay.”

None of them had been able to reply to her, but the doctor seemed to understand, was no doubt use to that; she’d just smiled at the tangible relief on their faces, an honest smile that made her look years younger. Thorin had somehow felt strong enough to gather Frerin and Fili and Vivi in his arms, his head thrown back, staring blankly up at the ceiling even as Frerin began to cry and Fili tugged tiredly at his hands wanting to be picked up.

He’d obliged, letting his little nephew bury his head in the curve of Thorin’s neck, not complaining that his Uncle was holding him a little tighter than was usual.

Thorin had convinced Vivi to take herself and Fili home after that, when the doctors warned them that Dis wouldn’t wake for hours; he’d almost pushed Frerin out of the door with them, knowing full well that his little brother needed rest, still barely recovered from his own injuries. He had been adamant that he would stay with Thorin, but the elder of the two was having none of it.

“I’m fine,” he’d complained when Thorin had told him, once more and in a voice that did not sound as if it could be contradicted, to go home.

“You can be fine when you don’t wince when you stand up from a chair,” Thorin told him, too tired to try and be any more polite (though most of his family would argue that even on the best of days, Thorin wasn’t the most genteel of individuals). He sounded angry, and unfriendly, but right now he didn’t care, and thankfully Frerin knew him well enough to understand that the frustration was not directed at him, but at the situation. “Go home, or I’ll put you in a taxi myself, so help me.”

He lowered his voice a little as Frerin shot him a pained, pleading look. “And I don’t want Viv driving home by herself, okay? Make sure her and Fili get back alright. Stay in the spare room in case they need you.”

That wasn’t quite the truth – of any of them, Vivi was the best in a crisis, and the least likely to need help at a time like this. In reality it was more likely that Frerin would need the emotional support than she, though his younger brother would never have admitted that.

“One of us here, and one at home,” he said, when Frerin still look unconvinced, and almost smiled as he caught the moment his brother gave in, visible in the creases around his eyes and the way his frown smoothed out.

It was a low blow, using that to make Frerin leave, but Thorin had known that there would be no way he’d be able to say no, and he needed his brother home and resting right now more than he needed him here, tired and underfoot.

Frerin nodded, and Vivi shot him a wink over his shoulder, perhaps with a little less spark than she normally would; she’d heard, she always did, and understood exactly what Thorin was doing.

Not for the first time, Thorin was grateful for his sister-in-law.

He passed Fili, already half asleep again in his arms, back to her.

“Call me when you get home,” he told her, managing at the last minute to make it sound as if it wasn’t an order.

“Call _me_ when she wakes up,” Vivi shot back in return, not trying at all to make it sound like any less the command that it was.

It wasn’t until later that he realised that not only had it never even crossed his mind for _him_ to go home, it also hadn’t occurred to Frerin and Vivi that he wouldn’t stay, either.

They’d left him then, and at some point he’d dozed off in the chair, waking in the early hours of the morning to the grey light that comes before the dawn and a painful crick in his neck, but all of that was ignored when he realised that they had wheeled in Dis’ bed whilst he slept. He padded to her bedside immediately, eyes darting from her face – pale, a little drawn, with scrapes across her forehead – to the cannula in the back of her hand, connected to an iv. She was breathing steadily, and there was very little he could see that really indicated she’d been in an accident: the various surface injuries were hidden by the sleeves of her hospital gown, anything worse by the pale sheets.

He took her hand, and sagged in relief as her fingers moved against his, and her forehead contracted a little.

She made a soft, low noise in the back of her throat, and he dragged a thumb across the back of her hand, careful to avoid the cannula.

“Thorin?” she mumbled, before she’d quite opened her eyes.

“I’m here,” he replied, his throat contracting a little. “I’m here.”

“The…” her other hand fluttered to the curve of her abdomen.

“The baby is fine,” he told her, trying to sound as reassuring as he could. “A little small, and in an incubator – we haven’t been able to hold him yet – but he’s well.”

Thorin could have added a lot more – how small his hands were, that they weren’t allowed to hold him because they weren't sure how developed his immune system was, how Thorin had wanted to fall to his knees by his bedside and remain there until he was allowed to take his nephew home, but he didn’t. He just gently tucked a loose strand of her hair – as dark as his, and already with the faintest threads of silver at her temples, a family trait, for all that she was only just thirty – back from her forehead. She nodded, her eyes slipping shut and her breathing easing out once more.

The clock above the door told him that it was just past five in the morning, and he went to tell the nurse behind the desk that she had woken up. The nurse on duty seemed surprised but grateful.

“Thanks,” she told him. “Most people don’t think to let us know.”

Thorin shrugged, and turned away, not bothering to tell her that he’d gone through all this before, only months ago. _Rupturing of the spleen and laceration of the renal artery_ still rang through his head on nights he couldn’t sleep, as did images of Frerin, propped up against a wall and soaked in his own blood, still managing to smile up at Thorin... but that was no one’s business but his own.

He did not return immediately to Dis’ room, needing to share the news that she had woken. Instead he made his way to the main entrance, stepping outside the glass doors to the cool, damp air, breathing in deeply as he switched his phone on and waited for it to load. Two messages were waiting for him, one from Frerin and one from Vivi, telling him they had made it home safely: he hesitated for a moment over his speed-dial before shaking his head and opening up a new text, typing a quick message to send to the both of them – **_she woke up, she seemed fine but tired, back asleep now, I’ll let you know if anything changes_**.

He’d promised to call, he knew, but it seemed ridiculous to wake them when they had only had a few hours’ sleep and nothing bad had happened.  

They'd get the news as soon as they woke, and that was the main thing.

Thorin went back inside feeling restless, uneasy still; he wanted to broadcast the news from every rooftop in the city, and at the same time wanted to crawl into his bed and never emerge. It was a strange juxtaposition.

The strip lighting, he was annoyed to realise, was as bright at night as it was in the day: he added paracetamol to the list of things to pick up at the hospital shop when it opened in a few hours, alongside a toothbrush and something to eat. He didn’t feel particularly hungry, but when Frerin had been in hospital he’d lost almost as much weight as his little brother, and didn’t fancy a repeat of that; he still wasn't back to his usual weight.

The corridors all looked the same in a hospital, but there was something vaguely familiar about the one he was currently walking down, getting deeper into the ICU. Without meaning to, his feet had taken him back to that same room again, perhaps some internal part of himself remembering the strange, flickering peace he had felt upon leaving the last time, and demanding he return. The door was closed this time, there would be no accidental staggering through, and he couldn't pretend that he thought it was empty again.

He honestly had not meant to go back.

He had no reason to go back.

With a furtive glance to either side to make sure no one was around Thorin stole inside, pressing his back to the door once it was closed.

He caught himself before he slid to the ground, forcing himself to stay upright.

“Sorry, again,” he muttered, though whether it was to the room in general or to himself or to the patient in the bed he just wasn’t sure. “I just… wanted to tell you that my sister is going to be alright. She woke up a little while ago, and spoke to me.”

There was no response, no clapping of hands or shouts of joy, just blessed silence.

“I know you don’t know me, or her… but I just really needed to tell someone that.”

 He pulled himself away from the door and over to the bed; if he was going to interrupt this man’s rest then at least he would have the courtesy to look him in the eye when he did so. Though, of course, that was a figure of speech; his eyes were closed, the shadow of his eyelashes ghosting the pale skin of his cheek. He watched them for a moment, waiting for some movement, the flicker of REM sleep, though he was once more disappointed. 

Thorin’s own eyes were drawn to the light dusting of freckles across the bridge of his nose, pale and washed out now, as if months stuck in here had bleached the life from his skin; he imagined the man would tan quite well in the sunshine, his freckles getting darker and darker the longer the summer months wore on, but it was far too long since this man had been outside. He frowned a little as he reminded himself that this Mr Baggins might never see the sunlight again. 

“You probably want your friends here, not some stranger talking to you about people you’ve never met.”

An awful thought occurred to him. What if he wasn’t the only person who did this: what if other visitors came in here to vent their verbal frustration on this man? What if he was just one in a line of people that came to use his blank expression and silence as a kind of therapy, leaving when they felt better?

He shook his head.

He was being ridiculous. The nurse has said that he didn’t get many visitors, he would have noticed a steam of frustrated relatives and friends coming in to cry.

There was just… him.

And as guilty as it made him feel, he couldn’t deny that he felt better for having told someone that Dis was going to be okay, for sharing that knowledge. The restlessness that had crept into his bones had lifted, his spirits rising a little even as exhaustion took its place, urging him back to the uncomfortable chair in Dis' room. Even if he had never intended to come back, right now, he was grateful that he had.

He let himself quietly out again, relief making him stand taller, back straighter, though he didn’t really understand why.

“Sorry,” he said again in the doorway. “I’ll see you around.”

He felt like an idiot, talking to a man that couldn't hear him, but he found that he couldn't quite bring himself to leave without saying goodbye.

 

\--

 

_Seven weeks later –_

The light was too bright and his body was too heavy, and he didn’t understand what was happening or why he couldn’t feel his fingers properly; everything was slightly blurry and he found himself bordering on the edge of hysteria. People kept asking him to _blink twice for yes_ and to _look over here_ and to _nod if you can understand me_ but no one was explaining what was wrong, what had happened, why he had woken up in an unfamiliar room unable to use his body properly, surrounded by strangers.

He tried to form words but couldn’t, his teeth felt wrong and his mouth both too big and too small at the same time, and the nurse must have sensed his panic because she smiled reassuringly at him.

“That’s okay, it’s perfectly normal to not be able to talk immediately afterwards. Just focus on staying awake. The doctor is on his way.”

 _After what_ , he wanted to scream, but all he succeeded in doing was opening his mouth a little. _What happened to me?_

There was a flurry of inexplicable movement around him, people bustling in and out, and then a tall, red-haired woman was smiling down at him, her face lined and friendly, and she was talking, introducing herself, explaining what was happening, but he kept getting stuck on certain words.

_Comatose_

_Twenty one weeks_

_Four weeks ago_

What was happening?

His eyes flickered to the stand, where flowers that he vaguely remembered seeing - though where, where had he seen them before? - were standing in a vase.

They were bright, and pretty, and the sight of them made him relax, though he didn’t know why.

He tried to steady his breathing, and turned back to the doctor. 

His tongue still didn’t feel right, but this time he managed to make it work, his voice wrecked and sounding nothing at all like he usually did.

“Start… _beginning_.”


	3. Chapter 3

It had been three days before he had come back, seventy two long, slow hours full of endless waiting and sitting and trying to be patient; he’d found himself back in the man’s room when Dis has finally been able to stand and go to the NICU to see her son, Vivi’s hand clenched so tight in hers that it had been white when Dis has eventually let it go. She’d struggled to sit next to the incubator, hands clenching the arms of the chair as if she had been afraid she might fall; Thorin had watched through the window to the ward, clutching the window sill himself, wanting to help but knowing that the nurses wouldn’t allow that many people in at the same time.

Vivi had been there though, her short blonde hair tucked behind her ears as she had hovered, in case Dis needed her, eyes darting between the small body in the incubator and the woman beside her, not knowing which needed her attention more.

Then Dis had pressed her forehead against the glass of the incubator and smiled, the heartbreakingly joyful smile of a mother seeing her son for the first time, and something in Thorin’s chest had tightened and relaxed at the same time.

Frerin, standing next to him, had nudged him.

“Stop worrying, Mum.”

Thorin had exhaled something close to a laugh and ran a hand through his hair.

Frerin could tease him all he liked, but it would never stop the ever-present disquiet in his heart when it came to his family; even when there was nothing wrong, there was a coil of fear, as if he knew something was going to be eventually.

He’d been planning on going home, after that, to have a shower and a change of clothes, but as he’d passed the end of the corridor he’d thought once more about that door, that quiet room, the daylight a grey-glow against the pale bed sheets, that unassuming expression, and he’d ducked back in, just for a moment or so, just to tell him the news, even though he knew the man wouldn’t be able to hear him.

“They want to call him Kili,” he said, hovering a little, unsure whether or not to stay standing or to sit. “Fili is over the moon about it, apparently it was his idea.”

He’d shaken his head then, and left, because there was no reason for him to be doing this.

But since then it had been as if a floodgate had been opened; Thorin had never been the kind of person who vented their feelings onto people in his acquaintance, let along complete strangers, but there was something about the silence of the room that drew it out of him, something about the strange quality of speaking to someone who could not hear or respond that made it so much easier than it had ever been.

It was not every day, though he did find himself at the hospital that often, despite his work and helping to look after Fili, so that both of his mothers could either rest or wait in the NICU together, but it was perhaps twice or three times a week that he found himself pausing by the door, once more wondering whether or not he should come in, before inevitably quietly entering the unchanging room, slipping into the chair beside the bed, and _talking._

“I got to hold my nephew for the first time today,” he might tell the man, settling down in the chair. “I…  well, not really hold him, not in my arms, we’re still not allowed to do that. But we can touch him now, they call it comfort holding. So the baby knows people are there. He still can’t open his eyes.”

He rather suspected that it would terrify anyone who knew him closely to hear him talking like this, so freely and so openly, with a complete stranger.  

 He didn’t know why he did it.

He just knew that it made him feel immensely comforted, in way that he had not felt since perhaps he was a boy, safe in his mother’s arms or at his father’s side. There was just something therapeutic about the silence, something so nice about being able to talk without anyone actually listening, without anyone asking him questions or expecting a certain response, or telling him _to let it all out_ or that _it would all be okay._

Thorin told him about his family, about how it had felt to become a surrogate parent to a difficult twelve year old and a withdrawn fifteen year old when he himself hadn’t even turned twenty, and how he hated when people told him what a good job he’d done, because he didn’t feel as if he’d done _anything._ Frerin had pulled out of his shell when he’d wandered off on a gap year before going to university and Dis had softened her edges over time, particularly after meeting Vivi on her own freshers week (at a uni the complete opposite side of the country to Frerin, and hadn’t that made picking them both up at the end of term a joy). It had had little to do with him; after all, he’d never quite managed to do either, never outgrowing that teenage sense of displacement and irritation that social situations left him in.

He admitted how that in itself bothered him sometimes.

Thorin explained how much he hated that everyone always seemed to try and give him credit for how his siblings had ‘turned out’, talking about them as if they were stains Thorin had scrubbed clear rather than actual people who had grown and developed in their own way; they nodded respectfully at him and talked about _sacrifice_ and _how proud your parents would be_ , and after one long, quiet afternoon he even admitted, his voice low and quiet, how much that annoyed him, because he couldn’t shake the feeling that his father would just be disappointed that he’d never gone on to study, had taken up an apprenticeship to make ends meet  so that he didn’t have to dip into Dis or Frerin’s inheritances (his own had gone entirely on paying off the last of the mortgage on their family home, so they didn’t have to move).

He rarely saw nurses or doctors in the man’s room, for which he was immensely grateful, though from the familiar nods he was starting to receive he suspected that they were aware of his comings and goings.

Thorin talked about his work, too, as a jeweller, how he had started off in a chain place but how the day to day grind of selling cheap looking chains and tacky pendants had driven him mad, and how with a business loan that had been rather too much for a man in his mid-twenties to cope with (of course he hadn’t realised that at the time) he had started up his own place, with the intricate twists of custom made jewellery that had become his speciality.

He explained that despite his worries about his father, he loved doing it.

He admitted that there was very little that gave him as much peace and satisfaction as selling something he had poured his heart and soul into, knowing that the person who was buying it loved it as much as he did.

Sometimes he wondered if he should ask the man about himself, about who he was and what he did and how he had ended up in his small, bright room, but he always stopped himself. For all that the man would not answer, for all that he would learn no answers if he did so, it still seemed oddly invasive. The man was not lying here waiting to be quizzed about his life, and he deserved privacy even now, in this deepest of sleeps.

Thorin managed to ignore the irony of that, in consideration of his own actions, simply by putting it out of his mind.

It had been three weeks now since he had first met Mr Baggins, though met really implied some level of reciprocation in their meetings, of which there were none, and despite himself a couple of afternoons a week still found him here, sat in the uncomfortable chair, watching a face he didn’t know for any sign of movement.

He swallowed.

“They’re always hovering, the nurses. I don’t blame them, all the babies in the neonatal unit are so… small. He is too, my nephew. He’s getting bigger though.”

Thorin cleared his throat, and shifted a little in his chair.

“I’ll bring him in to meet you, if you like.”

 _Why did I say that?_ he wondered to himself. _What good would thinking that actually achieve?_

Talking to the man had left noticeable side effects, though: the outpouring of what Thorin was now starting to realise was _years_ of pent up emotion was leaving him lighter, with more space in his mind for a different kind of support than what he had been able to offer them in the past.

Frerin had shot him a strange look – that was probably deserved – only yesterday, when his younger brother had admitted that he had skipped his check up to look after Fili (Dis had fallen asleep in the hospital and had missed when she was supposed to come home, and Thorin had been at work; Vivi had been sat by the incubator, and had completely lost track of time).

Normally Thorin would have growled some irritated retort at Frerin, called him an irresponsible idiot or something of that ilk, but the annoyance that normally rose so quickly to the fore of his mind wouldn’t come; instead, he shot him a look of half-hearted exasperation, and had thrown Frerin’s mobile at him, telling him to reschedule.

“Are you alright, Thorin?” Frerin had asked when he got off the phone. “You don’t seem… yourself.”

“I’m fine,” he’d answered, his voice a little gruffer than usual.

Frerin gave him a look that clearly stated that he didn’t believe a word of it, but let him be.

He hadn’t told anyone about his visits to the comatose patient, though he wouldn’t have been able to explain why he felt the need to keep it a secret if you had asked: perhaps it was something to do with the guilt he still felt at unburdening on a stranger.

That hardly stopped him though.

If anything, he was having to restrain himself from going to sit at the man’s bedside more frequently than he already did.

It was strange, he thought to himself as he arrived at the hospital once more, a duffel bag of supplies for Dis and Vivi over one arm, how much a little thing like talking to ease the ache across your shoulders, lighten the pressure that had been weighing down your neck for more years than you could actually remember.  Dis had been discharged over a week ago, but the two of them spent so much time around the NICU that Thorin and Frerin had taken to bringing in things for them, books and snacks and bottles of water, so they remembered to look after themselves.

He paused for a moment by the hospital shop, the warm floral scent of tens of bouquets of flowers all mixed together, and thought about those silk flowers on the windowsill once again.

They still annoyed him, though he couldn’t for the life of him explain why.

He shook his head, and pressed on, to find his family.

 

\--

 

_Four weeks later –_

Bilbo found himself staring, once more, at the flowers on the bedside table. He had presumed a relative or friend had brought them, but the outpouring of visitors he’d received in the couple of days since he had woken up had produced no culprit: in fact, a lot of people had looked a little shame-faced when he’d asked, which made him wonder if they really had been visiting as often as they had said they had.

He now had an array of bouquets spread out across the windowsill, some of them expensive and a lot of them far too over the top, but he’d asked the nurses to leave these as the only ones next to his bed.

 _Tulips_ , his mind provided, the word for the flowers slotting into place. _Vari_ \- there was a word, for tulips like these, with more than one colour in the petal. _Vagri_ \- _something. Variegated! Variegated tulips._

His head fell back against the pillow in exhaustion.

That kept happening, disconcerting moments as his mind and memory continued on their re-boot, leaving him tired. He barely realised what he had forgotten until it had reasserted itself in his mind, leaving an odd disquiet in his chest at the realisation of how ill he had been.

“Do you know who left the flowers?” he rasped to a nurse, his words a little unsteady still.

“Your friend-” the nurse began, before cutting himself off with a short, barking laugh. “Isn’t that strange, he’s been in here so often recently and I don’t know his name. He’s a bit stern looking, about six foot, dark salt-and-pepper hair, quite good looking in a strict, chiselled sort of way?”

He tapped the corner of his mouth with his pen.

“Bit of a big nose?”

Bilbo shook his head, relishing the pain that shot down his neck from the movement; not for the pain itself, but for the fact that he was able to do this. The couple of days since he had properly woken up had been terrifying at first, when he had been barely able to move his body, but it was very slowly coming back to him.

“I don’t… I don’t know anyone like that,” he said, frowning. “Are you sure?”

The nurse nodded.

“Positive. I can check the guest book for a name, if you like? I was on duty last time he came in, it shouldn’t be hard to find.”

Bilbo nodded, letting the nurse put the straw between his lips so he could have a drink of water. He missed food; apparently he would have to be weaned back onto solids, as his body would not react well to jumping straight into eating real food again after so long on drips.

Which was a shame, because he would kill for a fry up.

He went to check, and Bilbo stared at the delicate play of gold and orange in the petals as he waited, clenching his fingers rhythmically – for no reason other than because he _could._

The nurse returned, frowning.

“He didn’t sign in, I’m sorry. But I’m sure he’ll be back soon! He comes every few days, and he was here the three days ago.”

Bilbo nodded, already half asleep, still watching the flowers.  

                                                                                                                                                                    


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all. Thank you so much for all your amazing comments and responses to this, I'm really glad you are all enjoying so far. I'm going to continue trying to update as regularly as I can, because you're all lovely. :) Massive thanks to shamingcows, thewatsondiaries, and a-child-of-yavanna for letting me ramble about this fic and helping me out. ♥
> 
> As always, come hit me up on tumblr if you want to chat (http://northerntrash.tumblr.com/)
> 
> MOST IMPORTANTLY you should all go look at the gorgeous art that shamingcows has drawn~   
> http://shamingcows.tumblr.com/post/89661048243/fan-stuff-for-northerntrash-and-her-not-a

It was a month until someone found out what he was doing, and he should have been surprised that he had even had that long: his family were hardly known for their understanding of boundaries when it came to their older brother’s life, though he suspected that some of that was due to the fact that he, as their guardian, had stepped into more of a parental than fraternal role for much of their lives; much in the same way that children feel they have an inherent right to their parents’ lives, so his siblings did with him.

He would have been more annoyed, but it was hard to hold on to an irritation for the same thing for nearly two decades.

“So this is where you keep sneaking off to,” came his brother’s familiar voice from the doorway. Thorin was a little proud of himself for not flinching at the unexpected sound, and he schooled his face into something stern and expressionless, keeping his eyes firmly on the man in the bed.

“Is it too much to ask for a moment alone?” he shot back.

“Probably not,” Frerin replied. “But it is more than a moment alone. You’ve been disappearing at odd times for weeks now. Did you not think that we would notice?”

Thorin laughed; a dry, heavy chuckle.

“I know you two better than that.”

It was neither agreement nor disagreement, nor was it an explanation; he didn’t doubt that his brother was watching him curiously, no doubt waiting for him to say something more, to offer something more than just silence and the outside view of what was no doubt an inexplicable situation, but he didn’t.

Honestly, if his brother expected anything more after all these years, then he clearly didn’t know Thorin very well.

He half-expected Frerin to leave, but that might well have been more wishful thinking on Thorin’s behalf than anything else. He twisted the heavy ring he worse around his middle finger, a slow and well-practised gesture that previous partners had labelled as nerves, or sadness, or discomfort; a whole host of inaccurate emotions attributed to a simple motion that Thorin did so regularly because it _wasn’t_ a response to a single feeling, but to instead to whenever he felt any kind of emotion that he couldn’t adequately express or deal with.

Thorin closed his eyes for a moment as the door shut with silent resolve, and his brother made his way into the room, hovering awkwardly by the end of the bed, eyes darting between Thorin and the man.

There was still a slight unsteadiness to the way Frerin held himself, the way his shoulders hunched forwards ever so slightly in the vague echoes of pain from recovery. The pain would stop eventually, his doctors had assured them both, but he was already doing unspeakably well for someone who had suffered his extent of injuries only a few short months before.

It made Thorin want to tie him to a chair so that he couldn’t move, so that he could continue to heal; he winced internally every time Frerin lifted Fili in the air, a little slower than he had done before.

He didn’t dare vocalise that wish, though; he’d been told on multiple occasions that his level of caring bordered on the obsessive.

“Who is he?” Frerin asked, after a long pause, and Thorin shrugged, still twisting the ring; it was a heavy piece of jewellery, one of the first pieces he had ever made, when he was still training and had done more than just sketch up boutique designs. Two matching engravings wrapped the entire circumference of it, back to back, from the pair of rings that his had been made from.

He could barely feel the notches of the engravings anymore: they had been worn almost smooth by his own hands.

“I don’t know.”

Frerin reached for the clipboard, but before he could even begin to flick through the pages Thorin made a noise of protest, and shook his head.

“Don’t,” he said, sighing when Frerin shot him a questioning look. “I don’t… just leave it, okay?”

His brother was frowning at him, clearly confused.

“It’s not…” Thorin cut himself off, nearly groaning aloud.

He wished he could articulate his emotions the way he could when he was alone in this room with the man in the bed, but the gentle, inquisitive look on Frerin’s face stoppered him, turning the lock firmly on whatever it was he had been going to say.

“It’s not my business,” he said in the end, a little lamely. “I know his surname, and how long he’s been in here, and that’s already too much.”

Frerin frowned. “Surely you’re making it your business, if you’re coming in here several times a week.”

Thorin shrugged, deliberately avoiding his eye.

The quiet continued, the slow hum of the machines that monitored the comatose patient a steady thrum in the background; the late afternoon light slanted through the room, lifting slowly moving particles in the air, dust and pollen blown in through the open windows, lighting them gold.  

Frerin’s fingers tapped a near-silent pattern against the end of the bed, his own ring, worn on the same finger as Thorin’s, catching the light.

The clock on the wall ticked quietly past the hour.

Thorin watched the man in the bed breathe slowly, steadily, up and down, the only true indication that he was living. After a little while Frerin moved to the wall behind Thorin, unusually quiet as watched not the man in the bed, but his brother. His eyes flickered from the back of his head to his hands, resting with unusual stillness on the arms of the chair, fingers stretched out rather than clenched into loose fists as he usually did.

A nurse came in, shooting them both a smile and a nod as she took the readings on the machines, noting them quietly and efficiently down, before leaving again. Frerin took note of the fact that she didn’t seem too surprised to see them there.

He wondered if this is what Thorin had done when he was unconscious, but he doubted it; every time he had drifted awake Thorin had been pacing, or running his hands through his hair, elbows resting on the bed next to Frerin’s arms as if physical closeness alone would be enough to bring his brother back to full health.

Thorin seemed… calm.

It was an odd thing to witness.

“It’s good of you to come and visit him,” Frerin said after a moment, from behind Thorin, his presence a warmth at his back. Thorin himself had almost managed to forget that he wasn’t alone in the room, watching the almost hypnotic rise and fall of Mr Baggins’ chest under the sheets.

He shook his head at his brother’s voice.

_His_ Frerin, his soft and gentle little brother, always searching for the best in the world and in Thorin, no matter what.

“It’s not _for_ him,” he bit out, “It’s not some selfless act. It makes _me_ feel better.”

Frerin’s right arm wrapped tightly around the top of Thorin’s own arms, all the way around his chest, his head dropping to the curve of his shoulder for a moment in a fierce, sudden embrace.

“Maybe that’s okay,” he mumbled against Thorin’s shirt. “Maybe you deserve to be a bit selfish once in a while. But if it makes you feel bad, then do something for him. It doesn’t have to be much.”

He let go then, stepping back and away from Thorin as if that brief moment of tenderness had never happened, his normal light-hearted tone back as he made for the door. Thorin rested his face in his palms, his elbows propped up on the chair arms.  

“You know,” he commented, just before he stepped out of the room. “Those fake flowers are pretty damn ugly.”

Thorin had smiled into his hands.

“That was my brother,” he told the man a little while later. “He’s a meddling pain in the arse but at least you know who I am talking about now when I complain that he keeps skipping his doctor’s appointments.”

He stood to leave.

“I don’t know how you’re going to feel when you wake up,” he said, frowning a little still. “Probably really annoyed that all these strangers keep barging in when you’re trying to rest.”

_If_ he wakes up, his mind corrected as he reached the doorway.

The thought weighed heavily on his mind as he made his way slowly back to the NICU; his nephew was in a much better condition now, thankfully, and had been moved to a secondary ward, out of which they could come in and out more freely, unlike for the first few weeks of his life.  Frerin shot him a small, strange smile when he came in, but Dis said nothing on the matter, so he assumed that his brother had, for once, used his discretion, and hadn’t told their sister where he had been.

He ruffled Frerin’s hair fondly for that, as he had done when his brother was still a young boy.

“I need to get back to work,” he told Dis, who smiled up at him. “I’ve left Dwalin alone in the shop for far too long, he’ll have scared away all the customers by now.”

Dis hit his arm, gently.

“You’d be sunk without him and you know it.”

Throin shrugged, and kissed her forehead.

“Do you need a lift home, later?”

She shook her head.

“It’s okay. Frerin said he’d take me back later.”

Thorin frowned. “Get an early night tonight, alright? You need some rest.”

She grinned. “Yes, Mum.”

He glared at Frerin, who was staring innocently up at the ceiling, as if the nickname had absolutely nothing to do with him, and took his leave of them both, though not before resting a finger to his mouth in a silent kiss, pressing it against the glass of the incubator.

But as he passed the front desk, he found his eyes once more drawn to the bright display of flowers on offer there, the wide spread of neatly arranged buckets on their stands, each one stuffed with cellophane wrapped bouquets, some small and elegant, others large and unwieldy.

His eyes slid past the pastel arrangements clearly intended for elderly female relatives, and skipped the roses entirely. Flowers were definitely not his forte, but even he understood that roses would probably give off the wrong messages to the nurses. Lilies felt too much like funeral flowers, to him; he still remembered with all too much clarity the wreathes above his parents’ graves.

Thorin’s eyes passed over flowers of every shape and size, tall orchids in small pots and puffs of baby’s breath, until they were caught by the thick stems of sunflowers, their wide, dark centres in bold contrast to the yellow of their curved petals.

They looked cheerful, and friendly, and innocent.

He dropped them off in the man’s room before he left, placing them silently on a table rather than giving them to a nurse, who might expect some kind of explanation for his answer.

By the time he came back, several days later, they were in water in a vase next to the bed, and it oddly cheered him up to see them.

 

\--

 

_Three weeks later –_

Bilbo woke to the quiet noise of the door closing behind someone, and he frowned a little as he slowly began to move his body as much as he was able; he started with his toes, which he could flex with some ease now he had been awake a few days. He did his best to move his legs, but could do little more than bend them just a little, if he placed his feet flat on the bed. His shoulders were becoming easier to move, but it was still impossible for him to life himself upright, or roll onto his side.

Moving his arms was a tremendous effort still, but the nurses left the control for the bed by his hands at all times, and he had just enough dexterity to be able to press the call button, and hold down the button that shifted his bed slowly upwards, so that he was left in more of an upright position.

He glanced around the room, a little bored as he waited for a nurse to come and help him have a drink of water; he was already aching to begin physical therapy, as much as his nurses and doctors kept warning him that it would be a long and exhausting road, just so he would be able to do the simplest of things by himself once again.

“Ah, you’re awake,” his nurse said as he bustled into the room. “What can I help you with?”

“Ah, water?” replied Bilbo, a little sheepishly, feeling a little awkward at having to ask despite the constant reassurances from his nurses that it was alright to do so.

He didn’t think he would ever underestimate how incredible a job nursing was after this, he reflected, as a straw was placed between his lips. Nor, for that matter, how incredible the people performing that job were.

“You missed your mystery visitor again,” the nurse said idly as Bilbo took small sips. “Still haven’t worked out who he is?”

Bilbo shook his head, a little annoyed.

“Did he sign the guest book this time?” he asked, but the nurse shook his head.

“Sorry about that,” he said. “He keeps managing to slip in when no one is at the desk. We’ll figure out who he is soon enough.”

Bilbo sighed, eyes turned back to the tulips, their stems visibly wilting in the warm room now.

“He left more flowers, though,” the nurse said idly. “Have you seen?”

Bilbo turned his head; there, on the chair, rested a small bunch of freesias, bright in the morning light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There has been a little confusion expressed at the time skips in these chapters: the premise is that Thorin finds Bilbo's hospital room when Dis has an accident, and seven weeks later Bilbo wakes up. As the chapters move chronologically through these seven weeks, the 'weeks later' drop down, as we're getting closer to when Bilbo wakes. I hope that helps, but if anyone is still confused, please feel free to contact me and I'll try and help. :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, come hit me up on tumblr if you want to chat (http://northerntrash.tumblr.com/)

“They said we can take Kili home in about a week,” Thorin said, almost feeling as if he were confessing to something. “When that happens I won’t be here every day anymore.”

He paused, watching the rain slide down the window, the heavy drops obscuring the view outside, thunder rolling audibly even now he had closed the windows. He’d been about to leave the hospital when the storm had broken across the city, and he’d found himself hesitating in the lobby before padding slowly back to the ICU and slipping through the door to the room he had grown to know so well. His excuse had been that he had parked at the far end of the car park, and didn't want to get soaked; even in his own mind, that had sounded hollow and false. 

There had been a twinge of bitterness when the doctor had told them that news, despite his happiness at Kili finally having been given the all clear. 

“So I doubt I’ll be seeing much of you,” he said eventually, feeling his fingernails press into his palms, an act so ingrained that he didn’t even realise that he had begun to clench his fists until he could already feel the pain of the action.

He let go, slowly, steadying his own breathing; the half-circles of the indents were a livid white against his skin.

Why did he feel so frustrated?

“I know it doesn’t make a damn bit of difference to you whether I come in or not,” he bit out after a long moment of silence, his voice harsh and almost cold, as if he truly blamed the man for not registering his presence, though he knew he did not. “I know you won’t notice either way. But I wanted to tell you anyway. In case… in case you _did._ ”

He reached slightly, a half-aborted motion that he pulled back from, almost immediately regretting it.

A distant flash of thunder brightened the room for a moment, almost imperceptibly: had Thorin not been staring at the window, deliberately averting his eyes from the bed, he might have missed it entirely.

“It’ll be good to get Kili home; Dis and Vivi are running themselves ragged, between here and home. I don’t think Dis has spent more than a night in her own bed since it happened, you know. And good for Frerin, too: he tries not to let it show, but he’s tired, and he’s still not well, not entirely. And Fili – he’s a good lad, but he misses having his mothers around. It isn't fair on him, to be passed between the four of us.”

A loud peal of thunder cut through the quiet of the room, and Thorin continued to stare out of the window, distantly, not really seeing anything in particular.

It was selfish, he knew, but he there was a strange part of him that knew he was going to miss these one-sided conversations, that would miss being able to unburden himself on an unwilling stranger. As guilty as it made him feel whenever he quite dared to think about it (something that he tried to avoid at all costs) he knew that he would never quite, in his own selfish way, be able to bring himself to regret these past weeks. Leaving the hospital room left him with an unerring and pervasive sense of relief, of calm, in a way that no friend or relative or therapist have ever been successful in creating.

It could not go on, not indefinitely; he recognised that even as he regretted it for its brevity.

But he could not live his life at the sleeping side of a stranger, unloading his tension onto the shoulders of a man unable to fight back; this was not a penance that the man was waiting through, this was _not how any of this was supposed to be._ The man should be living his life, as Thorin himself should be continuing with his own, not slowly sinking into this comforting but morally ambiguous routine.

He needed to leave, to walk away from the sleeping man’s bed before he started to hope that he would wake, before he started to think of him as anything other than a stranger.

Thorin half-smiled to himself, a small, bitter expression.

He already wanted him to wake, and not just as a casual observer; that was already too much. 

"What I came here to say, was… thank you. For listening," Thorin said, getting to his feet. "Even if you didn’t really have much of a choice in the matter. I hope to be able to return the favour, one day."

The man on the bed didn't respond, but then, he never did. Thorin stared down at him for a long, imperceptible moment, before throwing himself back in his chair with an audible noise of frustration, his stern face split into something approaching remorse.

He rubbed at his eyes with his hands.

“Who are you?” he asked, swallowing. “I’ve told you everything about myself, yet I don’t even know your name. That just doesn’t seem right.”

The clock above the door continued to tick, the steady noise of it suddenly deafeningly loud. Thorin could have sworn that he could taste his own heartbeat, moving in time with it.

“You know,” he said, his voice low and oddly quiet, as if he expected someone to overhear. “I’d really like it if you woke up. I don’t know anything about you, but I don’t think anyone deserves this to happen to them.”

He reached out, gingerly, and for the first time touched the man in the bed, his fingertips ghosting over his wrist. His skin was cool and dry, almost papery to the touch, and he gentled himself, as if afraid that he might in some way break the man, his fingers curling across the back of his hand into the curve where his thumb joined his palm, Thorin’s own thumb sliding underneath to press against his palm.

“I… just wake up,” Thorin said, voice even quieter now.

Another peal of thunder echoed across the room, distant now as the storm passed over them.

“I want to know what your voice sounds like.”

He squeezed, just a little, and then he felt something.

He stared at their hands for a long, slow moment, and then he felt it again.

The slight, but unmistakable, twitch of the man’s fingers against his own.

Thorin dropped the hand as if it burnt him, rising slowly to his feet as he tried to process what had happened. Then, his body throwing itself into motion, he ran to the door, opening it hard enough that it ricocheted off the wall, head turning back and forwards down the corridor until he caught sight of a member of staff behind the nurses station.

“Hey,” he called, and his voice must have been urgent, because the nurse got immediately to his feet and padded quickly over to where Thorin was standing.

“He moved,” he told the nurse as he approached, “the man, the man in here, _he moved.”_

The nurse raised his hands, as if in supplication.

“Sir, just-”

“You need to _do_ something,” Thorin said, his voice a little ragged. “It means he’s waking up, doesn’t it? Coma patients don’t just _move,_ and I was talking to him, and-”

“We _know,_ ” cut in the nurse, patiently. “Didn’t you hear? We contacted Mr Baggins’ relatives the day before yesterday. The readings from the machines indicated he started waking up on Tuesday.”

Thorin reeled, taking a half-step back into the room.

“It can take a long time for patients to return to full consciousness, particularly when they have been in a coma for as long as he has. It’ll take days, if not weeks, for him to wake up properly. But _yes,_ he _is_ waking up.”

The nurse smiled at him, and huffed out a chuckle at the obvious disbelief on Thorin’s face.

“Just stick around, sir. You’ll get to talk to your friend soon enough, you have my word.”

Thorin looked over his shoulder, at the man in the bed, who looked no different, and tried to believe.

 

\--

 

_Eleven days later –_

Bilbo awoke a little fuzzily – thankfully just from a normal sleep this time, though it didn’t stop the wash of relief every time he did so – to see a tall figure sat by his head. He stared at him a little while, the man staring unapologetically back at him, trying to work out just _why_ the man looked so oddly familiar. It wasn't a face that he could immediately place, nor was it someone who had been in the onslaught of visitors since he had woken from his coma. 

The man said nothing; neither did he.

But then, after a long, slow moment, something clicked in his head.

“You!” he said, a little confused, and the man smiled.

It was a warm, familiar smile, the smile of someone who knows you far too well, even if you yourself cannot place them, perhaps, or the smile of someone who has seen you from across the street, and has figured you out just from the way you hold your shoulders or tilt your head. The man’s eyes were extraordinarily blue, staring at him from the seat beside his bed, looking as relaxed and comfortable in the hard chair as if it were his favourite armchair, in which he had spent many a comfortable hour unwinding.

“Me,” the man agreed. “It is good to see you awake, Bilbo.”

Bilbo pressed the button that lifted his bed, feeling more than a little disconcerted at lying flat on his back whilst trying to have a conversation, his mind running a mile a minute as he tried to place the face, the voice, as he tried to settle the aching reach of his memory, searching for half-abandoned fragments, trying to _remember._

There was the echo of a smile, and the smell of something that he couldn't quite place. 

His mother's bright smile came unbidden to his mind.

“Gandalf?” Bilbo asked, after what felt like an age.

“Indeed.”

Gandalf’s smile stretched a little further, his eyes twinkling the way that Bilbo remembered them, as if full of some unspoken mischief.

“I haven’t seen you since… my mother’s funeral, have I?”

“It has been quite a long time,” Gandalf agreed, something dark and unspoken passing across his countenance for just a moment. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t come here sooner, my dear boy. I have been out of the country for quite some time; it was only when I returned that I heard that you were in here. I would have been here much sooner, if I had only known.”

Bilbo smiled in return, then; he hadn’t had much cause to smile recently, but it was oddly refreshing to hear someone being honest about their absence from his bedside. He rather suspected that a number of his relatives had been exaggerating their presence in the hospital room, a fact that had only been confirmed by his gentle prodding of the nurses for information. The only regular visitor he had had, at least in the past couple of months, had been the man whose identity still remained something of a mystery to him; he had missed him the day before, and the man had not returned since.

“Don’t worry, old friend,” he said, entirely sincerely. “I wouldn’t have remembered you being here, anyway.”

Gandalf quirked an eyebrow.

“You remember nothing of the last five months?”

Bilbo shook his head, wincing a little as he tried gamely to pull himself a little further up the bed.

“That is rather the idea of a coma, you know. You’re not really supposed to remember anything.”

Gandalf shrugged.

“You would know better than me, my dear. But they say that sometimes you remember voices, people speaking to you, that sort of thing.”

Bilbo shrugged, about to disagree entirely, but then something nagged at the corner of his mind, some half-recollected thought or voice that made him want to protest. His face hardened into a little frown for a moment, before he brushed it off.

“I’m not entirely sure,” he replied after a long pause. “But certainly there is nothing that I can bring to mind with any great cl-”

The word escaped him.

The frustration must have been evident on his face, because Gandalf reached over, and gently patted his hand, neither interrupting nor finishing Bilbo’s sentence, merely waiting for him to get there himself.

“ _Clarity_ ,” Bilbo finished eventually, with evident relief, becoming a little embarrassed as he realised how helpless he must seem. “Clarity,” he repeated, his voice a little strained now.

“Quite,” said Gandalf, still smiling. “The nurses tell me that these blanks in your mind will fade over time. They seemed to think that I needed warning of how you were faring, but I rather think they exaggerated: you seem quite alright to me.”

Bilbo raised an eyebrow.

“If by alright you mean unable to move or finish my sentences, then yes.” If his tone was perhaps a little ugly, then he didn’t think anyone would blame him for it.

Gandalf merely shrugged once more.

“You have always been a well of potential, my dear boy, I told your mother that for years. You’ll find a way through. I have the utmost faith in you.”

It wasn’t the first time that Bilbo had been told something similar in the last few days, but it was the first time that anyone had said it without deliberate force, as if they were trying to convince themselves as much as him.

Gandalf continued, leaning back in his chair. “What happened?”

“They tell me I fell down the stairs,” Bilbo said, with a bitter little laugh. “I rather suspect that I fell over the cat, I am always nearly doing so. Imagine, all those years of being afraid to throw caution to the wind and I end up nearly dying in my own home. My gardener found me, you know; thankfully the French windows overlooking the porch are at the bottom of the staircase, or else I might have just lain there until I did die.”

“Sometimes your own house is the most dangerous place you can be,” Gandalf replied, his voice calm and sure. “And but for a little push, you might never realise.”

Bilbo huffed another dry laugh.

“I rather hope Smeagol didn’t push me. He’s a cantankerous old cat, but I rather think he lacks the opposable thumbs and higher brain function necessary to enact a plot to kill me.”

Gandalf beamed as Bilbo sat back, relishing in the words that he had managed to say, all without stuttering; he felt like an over-eager fourteen year old again, ready to throw any word he had read into a conversation to make him sound smarter, only now he wanted to do so to prove, more to himself than to anyone else, that he still could.

He really, still could. 

He was going to be alright.

And as Gandalf sat there, a beatific smile on his face, Bilbo really started to believe it. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> laalaalaalaalaa anon who didn't like my daily updates, I can't hear youuu~
> 
> As always, come chat if you feel like it: http://northerntrash.tumblr.com/

_Present day –_

Bilbo was already a little irritated when the door to his hospital room opened. He’d only just been returned to his room after his first, very disappointing, physical therapy session.

He wasn’t entirely sure why he had expected it to result in some massive change in his physical abilities, and that had certainly not been the case. Instead, he had been lifted into a wheelchair, which was embarrassing for him in itself, only to be wheeled down to a room where a jovial, moustached therapist had had him squeezing rubber balls with his hands for an hour. He’d dropped them multiple times and had frustrated himself almost to the point of screaming, his torso burning from the effort of keeping it upright. By the time he had been taken back to his room, and lifted onto his bed, he’d wanted nothing more than to throw something at the wall in anger, only for him to remember that he physically couldn’t do even that.

He had gained a little more strength in his arms the last couple of days, and despite the assurances from his nurses and doctors that he was doing particularly well for someone who had not even been out of such a lengthy coma for a week, his frustration would not be quietened.

So when a tall, frowning man opened the door, Bilbo scowled at him.

“It is considered polite to knock, you know,” he told him, exhaustion bleeding through to irritation in his tone. “And I think you’re in the wrong room.”

The man stared at him for a moment, his mouth opening ever so slightly, and then reached over, and knocked twice on the open door.

“Very funny,” Bilbo told him. “My sides are splitting.”

The man quirked an eyebrow, and shut the door behind him.

“I’m not in the wrong room,” he told Bilbo, before coming to sit at the chair beside his bed.

Bilbo frowned at him, waiting for his face to become familiar to him. It had happened several times with visitors so far, not just with Gandalf: he hadn’t immediately been able to recognise them, and it was only as his mind continued to re-connect his consciousness with memories that he was able to put a name to them, to piece the fragments of their shared histories together.

But even as he stared, the man’s face distant as his eyes ran over the lines of Bilbo’s shoulders, his arms, and finally out of the window, nothing came.

His dark hair was pushed back, a little long, the shadow of his stubble dark – at least a couple of days’ worth, Bilbo thought absently – and his broad forearms, visible under the rolled up sleeves of his shirt, were tanned and flecked with freckles and silvery, fine scars, the remnants of old and minor singes and scrapes.

Tall, Bilbo registered, certainly taller than he himself was, and his nose was distinctive, his jaw strong, and-

Bilbo leant back a little more into his pillows, wishing he had the energy to lift his arms to rub at his eyes.

It was the man, the man the nurses kept mentioning, the mystery flower-bringer and his sleeping visitor.

“I… don’t know you,” said Bilbo quietly, an odd sort of disquiet in his chest. “The nurses are all convinced that I would, once I saw you, that I’d just forgotten – everything has been a little hazy since I woke up.” He trailed off for a moment, waiting for any kind of reaction from the man on the chair, only to be disappointed: his stern face showed just a flicker of emotion, nameless and fleeting. “But I don’t think we’ve ever met, have we? You’re a stranger.”

The man nodded, slowly, eyes not quite meeting Bilbo’s but hovering somewhere around his shoulders instead.

“We’ve… never met,” he agreed, his voice low.

“But you’ve been visiting me anyway,” Bilbo said, and though it wasn’t a question the man nodded once more in agreement.

“Yes, I have.”

Despite himself Bilbo found that there was some strange ache in his chest that he had not previously noticed that uncoiled at the sound of the man’s voice, as if it was in some way known to him, though he could not quite place it: like the forgotten memories of a childhood joy, it was both unfamiliar and familiar at the same time, stirring a strange and nameless nostalgia in him that he could not understand.

It made him prickle defensively, this inexplicable feeling.

“Thorin Durin,” the man said after a moment, stretching out his hand for Bilbo to shake: it was an oddly formal gesture given the circumstances, and Bilbo tried to lift his own hand in turn, before he remembered that such an act was still a little beyond what his body was capable of. He managed to raise his arm a scant few inches off the bed before it collapsed back down.

The frustration that washed across Bilbo’s face was plain for any who had been looking to see; Thorin had been unable to miss it.

He stared, stricken, at Bilbo’s hand, realising what he had done.

“I-” he began.

“Bilbo Baggins,” Bilbo cut across quickly, heat rising in his cheeks. “Though I suspect you know that already.”

Thorin withdrew his hand, slowly, as if afraid that a sudden movement might startle Bilbo. He was clearly trying to be careful, and it irritated Bilbo. Perhaps the only thing more frustrating than not having proper control over his own body was other people treating him as if there was somehow something fundamentally broken about him, that they had to step carefully over. He would have much preferred the man to make a joke, or to take Bilbo’s hand with his own, or do anything that didn’t make him feel quite so helpless. But then, the man did not know him, despite the hours spent at Bilbo’s bedside; he knew nothing of how he wanted to be treated, how he might react to a situation, nothing at all.

“So are you the one who bought me all the flowers?

Thorin eyed the windowsill, now stuffed with large, unwieldy bouquets and cards from well-meaning visitors. Bilbo caught the look, hand twitching; normally he would have waved his hand impatiently in reply, but as he was unable to do that he settled for clearing his throat.

“Not those ones,” he said, trying to clarify. “The freesias from the other day, and the tulips that were beside the bed when I woke up.”

Thorin nodded.

“Sunflowers before that,” he replied, looking a little surprised at himself, as if he had not meant to say that out loud.

Bilbo hummed. “It is a shame they died before I woke up,” he said, conversationally. “I have sunflowers growing in my garden back home, I am rather partial to them.”

They avoided each other’s gaze for a moment.

The silence was awkward, full of a peculiarly fierce tension, and Bilbo stared at the wall across him his bed, a sight he had grown all too familiar with over the last few days.

“Well then, Mr Durin, since you’ve seen fit to barge into my room multiple times over the last couple of months and interrupt my beauty sleep, it seems only right that you at least talk to me. Not that the brooding silence isn’t charming all on its own, but I honestly have no idea who you are or why you are here, and I’m feeling a little too rough to try and be polite about it.”

Bilbo swallowed as he finished, a little embarrassed at his own outburst, which was unexpected even to him.

“We could at least talk about the weather,” he said, awkwardly now. “At least it isn’t raining today.”

Thorin stared at him in momentary disbelief for a moment, before quickly shutting down his expression and schooling it back into the same blank sternness as before. Bilbo resisted the urge to roll his eyes; did the man ever show anything?

“Indeed,” Thorin replied, unsure where to go with this line of conversation now, “And I didn’t know your first name, actually. I don’t know anything about you other than your surname and that you were in a coma.”

Bilbo stared at him.

Was he serious?

“I… just… what?” he said, stumbling over his own tongue as he tried to think of something to reply to that. He sighed, nose wrinkled in disbelief. “Fine. Bilbo Baggins, age 32, writer by trade, unsociable by nature, and owner of a very cantankerous cat. And I think you’re the one who should be hospitalised, not me, but now that we’ve been formally introduced, why don’t you tell me why on earth you have you been visiting a man you know nothing about?”

Thorin blinked, a little taken aback, and stared at Bilbo for a moment before shrugging.

“It is… a long story,” he said in the end. Bilbo wondered whether or not the brevity of his response was due to not knowing what to say, or being unwilling to say more.

Bilbo’s mouth twisted in some mixture of amusement and irritation.

“Well,” he replied, his fingers twitching against his sheets. “I’m not exactly going anywhere, am I?”

But Thorin said nothing, his eyes turned to the window; Bilbo once more if Thorin simply couldn’t find the appropriate words or just didn’t care to answer, but he couldn’t tell either way. The clock above the door continued to tick quietly, a sound that had annoyed Bilbo since he had woken up, reminding him of the time that had passed since he had first arrived in the hospital. The silence stretched between them, awkward and unending; Bilbo continued to watch Thorin’s face, waiting for a reaction of some kind, of _any_ kind, but none came.

He felt tired, and helpless, and annoyed, but at the same time oddly grateful for the man’s company, for at least finally knowing who he was.

“I liked the tulips,” Bilbo said suddenly, reaching for anything to say. “But they mean ‘beautiful eyes’, which seems a bit ridiculous given that I was in a coma.”

Thorin swallowed.

“I… didn’t know that.”

Bilbo was a little taken aback for a moment, having forgotten that not all people wrote novels with dedicated subtext based off the language of flowers. The majority of people, no doubt, wouldn’t know what the meaning of one flower was from the next, but that didn’t stop him from being slightly offended at the man’s tone, which was cool and a little unimpressed.

“Freesias mean ‘friendship’, as well, which is a bit presumptuous given that we had never even spoken face to face. Until now, of course. Though apparently you spent a good deal of time talking to me, if the nurses are correct, even though we are complete strangers. Which you still haven’t explained, by the way.”

Thorin shifted a little in the chair, eyes darting to the door.

“I… didn’t know that anyone knew that much about flowers,” he replied in the end, a lacklustre response meant to distract from the rest of what Bilbo had said. Perhaps he simply didn’t feel like justifying himself, or perhaps he didn’t know how.

Bilbo sniffed.

“I didn’t know that anyone _didn’t._ ”

Thorin raised his eyebrows unappreciatively.

“More like a florist than a writer, aren’t you?”

Bilbo’s mouth dropped open.

“Well… I…” he blustered, at a loss for how to reply to that.

The was a flash of guilt across the man’s face, for just a moment, and Bilbo missed it entirely, too busy trying to think of something to say. Thorin’s tone had been unintentionally cruel, but he had felt put on the spot, and it had been the first thing that had come to mind as he had searched for some way to defend himself from the irritable tirade coming from the man on the bed.

“What would have been a more appropriate flower, then?” Thorin asked in the end, breaking their silence, folding his arms defensively across his chest.

Bilbo glared at him, trying to work out if he was being mocked in some way, but when nothing more came from the man he decided to answer.

“Heather, perhaps,” he said, finally. “For protection, and good luck.”

Thorin rolled his eyes.

“Shockingly,” he replied, his voice a little strained. “They don’t sell bloody heather in the hospital gift shop.”

Bilbo felt a little bad then, but decided not to let it show. This man had come barging repeatedly into his hospital room whilst he was comatose; Bilbo figured that he was allowed to be a little impatient with him. The slow ache of exhaustion was already creeping steadily over him, and not just from this brief encounter; this whole afternoon had pushed him far further than he cared to admit. He wondered how long it would take him before he could last a whole day without dozing off again.

Bilbo’s voice was quieter now, though the sarcasm in his voice remained razor sharp.

“Unfortunately, as I’ve been bed-ridden for my _wonderful_ half a year in here, I haven’t had a chance to go wandering around the gift shop yet. But I’ll be sure to let you know when I do.”

And there it was, success, finally – Thorin’s expression shifted, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards despite himself, and Bilbo huffed a quiet little laugh at the sight of it.

“See?” he said, more to himself than to anyone else, sleepiness stealing his sensibilities somewhat. “You can make facial expressions. I was starting to think that you couldn’t.”

His voice had become a little slurred, his eyes drooping, and he missed the surprise that left Thorin’s mouth briefly open, his eyes wide and perfectly readable for just a moment, full of frustration and amusement and disbelief.

“You’re tired,” he said, finally. “You should sleep.”

“I’ve done more than enough sleeping,” Bilbo huffed in reply, even as he closed his eyes. “Besides, I’ve not finished yelling at you yet. And I’ve not thanked you for the flowers. And you still haven’t told me why you kept coming to see me.”

Thorin shook his head slowly, though Bilbo couldn’t see it.

“Sleep,” he told him, and his voice was oddly gentle, the way it might be if you were trying to urge a young child to go to bed. “And I promise… I’ll come back soon, so you can finish shouting at me. I’ll even bring you more sunflowers, if you like.”

“Promise?” asked Bilbo, the word more of a mumble than anything else.

Thorin nodded, though he knew that Bilbo wouldn’t be able to see him, and got slowly to his feet.

“Promise,” he replied, as he passed quietly through the door.

When Bilbo awoke a few hours later, feeling refreshed and a little embarrassed at his first meeting with the man, it had taken him a moment to realise what had changed in the room.

When he did, though, a smile had stolen unbidden across his face, and he had shook his head in disbelief.

Another vase, tucked behind the one of freesias on his bedside table, so that it was a little hidden from view.

Stuffed quite full of sunflowers.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> many apologies for how late in the day this update came: it isn't technically midnight where I am, so I'm still counting it as a chapter a day update streak. ;) 
> 
> Unedited, because it is late in the day. I'll try and swing back tomorrow to fix any faults. :D
> 
> http://northerntrash.tumblr.com/

Frerin watched his brother carefully from across the living room, the warm sunlight spilling through the bay windows, lighting the room. Fili was out for the day, spending some much needed time with his mothers, leaving the pair of brothers with Kili. The room was warm and familiar, the large fireplace the same as when they had been children, even if the room had been redecorated several times over the years.

Thorin had Kili in his arms, the baby still small despite being almost as twice the size as he had been when he had first been born. He was slowly starting to open his eyes for longer periods of time, staring around at his family in interest, reaching with uncoordinated hands whenever he could for a lock of hair or a close finger.

Thorin’s face was warmer than Frerin had seen it in nearly a week as he looked down at Kili’s face, soft and sleepy after his feed. He had been unusually distant, even for him, to the point where even Fili had begun to notice that something was not quite right with his older uncle.

Frerin hadn’t pushed, until today, hoping that Thorin might say something himself; however, it was becoming more and more evident that he was not going to.

The question, really, was how to broach the subject.

“What happened?” Frerin asked eventually.

Thorin didn’t look up, his fingertip drawing a slow, soothing line up and down Kili’s nose, from his forehead down to the tip. It had always been guaranteed to send Fili to sleep when he was younger, and already Kili’s eyes had settled closed, his little fists unclenching.

“Nothing,” he said.

Frerin made a disbelieving noise.

“Like shit it was nothing. You were all weirdly happy and then a few days later you were downright miserable again.”

Thorin sighed; he wished more than anything that Frerin had never followed him to that hospital room, that he didn’t know about any of this.

“He woke up,” he said eventually. “About a week and a half ago.”

Frerin’s eyes were wide, surprised.

“Are you kidding me? Why didn’t you say anything? Have you been to see him?”

Kili flinched in his arms, a small twitch as his body settled to sleep, and he grabbed onto a fold of Thorin’s shirt, holding tight. The corner of Thorin’s mouth twitched upwards a little as he looked down at the sleeping infant.

Frerin made a low noise of realisation.

“You did go to see him,” he said, “And it didn’t go well.”

“He was angry,” replied Thorin eventually. “The nurses had told him I’d been coming in to his room.”

Frerin raised an eyebrow, waiting for his brother to say anything else, but when nothing else came he shook his head.

“Why was he angry at you?”

Thorin sighed, rolling his stiff shoulders back against the sofa, trying to work out the aches of the day.

“Why do you think?” he snapped, harsher than he had intended.

Luckily, Frerin knew his brother well enough not to be entirely put off by his tone, and tilted his head to one side.

“You think…” he answered, eyes watching Thorin closely as he tried to work out exactly what his brother was thinking. “You think that he, what, that he feels like you’ve been intruding?”

“I _have_ been,” Thorin answered shortly.

Frerin rolled his eyes.

“Thorin, the guy was in a coma. It wasn’t like he noticed.”

“That hardly matters.”

Frerin sighed, resisting the urge to swat his brother around the back of the head.

“And did he say this? Your mystery coma man? Or is this just you presuming that a bad mood is all your fault? ”

Thorin didn’t say anything to that.

“People have bad days, Thorin. You can hardly blame yourself for all of them. So he didn’t tell you that?”

Thorin closed his eyes for a moment, and that was perhaps enough of a confirmation for his brother.

“So let me get this straight. You went to see a guy who is just out of a coma, who is no doubt knackered and frustrated and angry: hell, I know I felt that way when I woke up in hospital, and I’d only been unconscious for a couple of days. And the nurses tell him that some guy has been visiting him, and talking to him, and bringing him flowers-” he shot Thorin a _look, “_ and I know you did, I saw you going into the gift shop, so there is no point in even denying it. And yeah, the guy is going to be a bit freaked out, but why the hell do you think he’d be angry at you?”

“He didn’t like it. He wanted to know why.”

Frerin shrugged.

“And? Of course he did. It’s weird, Thorin, there is no way around that. But at the same time, I’m sure you very eloquently explained yourself, didn’t you? I’m sure you sat down and presented all the facts, and explained that you were just frustrated with the world and struggle to talk about your feelings and that it was an incredible help to you.”

Frerin quirked an eyebrow at Thorin’s pained look.

“Yeah, I thought so.”

“I _meant_ to,” Thorin said, his voice low.

They sat in silence for a moment. Thorin had honestly been intending to explain himself, to apologise, but despite himself he hadn’t been prepared to see the man awake, eyes open and frown very much present.

Thorin’s expression was enough for his brother, who had spent many years trying to decipher exactly what Thorin was trying to think. Frerin sighed, and when he spoke again after a long moment his voice was a little gentler.

“You always thought it was your job to stop us from getting hurt. I remember when you punched that guy on my rugby team in the nose for giving me a black eye in a scrum.”

Thorin grunted, surprised by the change of conversation but not willing to comment on it. “He was two years older than you and twice your size.”

Frerin rolled his eyes.

“My point is, you’re always feeling responsible for things that you shouldn’t.”

“No, I’m not,” Thorin said in protest, but an unexpectedly hard look from Frerin silenced any further protests.

“Yes you are. You always have been. You blamed yourself when Dis got appendicitis when she was fourteen for not taking her to the hospital sooner.”

“I should have listened when she said she didn’t feel well.”

“She was a _teenager,_ Thorin, and you were twenty one and working every hour you could and trying to raise us at the same time. You couldn’t take a day off because she was feeling ill, and she had a French test that she didn’t want to do that day.”

Thorin shrugged. He still remembered how awful he had felt when the school had called and told him that she had been ambulanced to the hospital, how he had driven through every red light in his impatience at reaching her.

“This guy, he was probably just having a bad day. And you know what? He was more than justified in having one. Things haven’t exactly gone his way this year, have they? And yeah, maybe if you’d explained yourself and not done your usual clam impression then he might not have been so angry at you, but hell. Stop beating yourself up about it. Did he tell you not to come back?”

Thorin shook his head, and there was a slight quirk to his mouth that Frerin did not understand, as if there was something Thorin was not telling him; had the man _asked_ him to come back, perhaps?

“Well then,” he said, a little lamely. “I don’t know what you’re getting so worked up about then.”

Kili had drooled, just a little, and Thorin dabbed gently at the corner of his mouth with the linen square that Dis and Vivi used to clean him up.

“It’s… I should never have gone to see him. He’s been through so much, and all I did was make it worse.”

Frerin sighed, and heaved himself up from the armchair, padding quickly across the living room and depositing his empty mug on the coffee table.

“Shit happens, Thorin,” Frerin told him, flopping down on the sofa next to him, careful to jostle neither the sleeping infant in Thorin’s arms nor his own injuries. “That’s just life, alright. We’ve all got to deal with it. It’s our job to just get back on that bicycle every time we fall off it. Life doesn’t ride with stabilizers forever, you know.”

Thorin huffed a laugh as Frerin’s arm pressed against his own, a silent but firm show of solidarity.

“You remember when Dad taught me how to ride a bike?”

Thorin nodded, his fingertip tracing the line of Kili’s cheek absentmindedly.

“He told me that it didn’t matter how many times I fell off or how many times I took the skin off my knees. You remember, right? Mum was sat on the wall outside the house, she was holding Dis, it was that really hot summer, and I was still pretty little. You must have been, what, nine or ten years old? And you were glaring at Dad like he’d just told me to try jumping off a bridge, and you yelled at him when he let go of the back of my bike. I wobbled along for a bit and fell off, and you told Dad that he wasn’t allowed to let me fall.”

Thorin smiled despite himself, a small and sure grin. He remembered that afternoon, that sudden fear as he had watched Frerin tip slowly over, as if in slow motion.

“Well sometimes you have to let us fall, so that we can learn not to do it again. And you have to stop feeling as if you’re responsible for every bad thing that happens. This guy? It’s not your fault he was in a coma. You didn’t even know him. And yeah, so you went and you talked to him when he was unconscious. So what? You won’t talk to any of us, and if it did you some good, then who cares? It didn’t hurt him.

“He was feeling shit because something bad has happened to him and you burst in there and didn’t explain yourself. But you know what? What you did is hardly the worst thing that has happened to him this year, is it? So you’ve got to stop thinking that it is. And you’ve got to go back, and maybe apologise, and if he doesn’t accept it then you can just walk away: because at the end of the day, you’ve not really done anything wrong.”

Thorin’s head fell back against the sofa for a moment, eyes pressed tightly shut, before he raised it up again.

“I should never have gone in in the first place.”

Frerin threw his hands in the air in impatience.

“It doesn’t matter that you did. It doesn’t make a difference to anyone’s life that you went to talk to a man in a coma. Stop acting like you’re the guilty party who needs to make amends, because you’re _not._ ”

Kili stirred a little in Thorin’s arms, his forehead creasing, and Thorin shot his brother a disapproving look. Frerin winced apologetically, and lowered his voice a little.

“Look,” he said. “You feel bad. I can’t say I understand why, but you can’t just sit here _moping._ Go back. Apologise if it makes you feel better. After that, you can leave, or stay, it doesn’t matter. But you need to stop acting as if the world is about to end just because everything isn’t going perfectly well for everyone you know.”

He stood up again then, and stretched a little, before reaching out to take Kili from Thorin’s arms.

“I’m going to put the little guy back in his cot, so he can sleep properly, and you can either sit here and feel sorry for yourself for something that doesn’t matter, or you can go and talk to the guy again.”

Thorin watched his brother and nephew pad quietly out of the room.

He couldn’t shift the inexplicable guilt that washed over him every time he thought about Bilbo, nor the weight of responsibility that he felt towards the man, regardless of what his brother said, but Frerin was right about one thing: he couldn’t continue to sit at home and wonder.

Thorin reached for his keys, resting on the coffee table, and hauled himself to his feet.

It had been a week.

Time to keep his promise.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How about we try and have them meet again, hey?
> 
> As always, come hit me up if you want to chat: northerntrash.tumblr.com
> 
> This one is dedicated to my lovely three P's: thewatsondiaries, shamingcows, and non6ix, for continuing to cheer me up and make me unspeakably happy. Love you guys. <3

The drive to the hospital was long, far longer than it should be; Thorin ended up sitting uncomfortably in traffic on several occasions, swearing under his breath at his hit red light after red light. The long wait made his confidence falter, made the nerves that his conversation with Frerin had instilled in him weaken a little. The sunlight that had brightened the day earlier was slowly overtaken by low cloud as he got closer to the city center and the huge hospital, the odd fleck of rain occasionally hitting his windshield; he felt that it reflected his mood rather too well for him to be entirely comfortable with it.

He faltered a little as he approached the doors, before steeling himself and continuing onwards, with a small shake of his head. He was a lot of things, he thought to himself, but a coward was not one of them.

The hospital felt oddly familiar to him, even though he had only been in twice since Kili had been discharged over two weeks ago, and he paused for a moment by the gift shop.

He shook his head at himself, and strode over to the lifts.

Several nurses nodded at him in the ICU as he passed, clearly recognizing him, a thought which made him wince a little in embarrassment. He found himself pausing by the door to the man’s room for a moment, before his mouth twitched in something that wasn't quite a smile as he remembered the last time he had been here.

He rose his hand, and knocked this time.

“Come in!” called a slightly strained voice, almost immediately, and Thorin rested his forehead against the cool wood of the door for a moment, the handle grasped firmly in his hand, before he stood straight again and let himself into the room.

There were three people in the room, and Thorin paused in the doorway as he took in them all. Two nurses were lifting Bilbo from a wheelchair into a bed, and Thorin realised with a start that he hadn’t quite understood that the man would not be able to walk still, that the he had perhaps underestimated quite how difficult it had been for him since he had woken up.

Bilbo Baggins stared awkwardly back at him as the nurses lifted him carefully into his bed, though it seemed that he was able to sit up by himself now without the aid of the slanted bed, at least.

Thorin swallowed as the nurses offered him small, reassuring smiles, both of them quietly leaving the room and the pair alone once more.

Thorin found himself staring at Bilbo, a little awkwardly; Bilbo’s expression was difficult to read, somehow smiling and frowning at the same time, his feelings impossible to gauge.

“It’s a bit embarrassing to have to be lifted into your bed every day, isn’t it?” Bilbo said eventually, settling back against the pillows.

Thorin wasn’t entirely sure what response that statement was supposed to illicit: he shifted, a little uncomfortable, from one foot to the other for a moment, until Bilbo huffed a little sigh. His arms seemed to be significantly stronger than the last time Thorin had been here: with one elbow kept tucked to his side, he managed to raise his forearm, and waved a little awkwardly at the chair beside the bed.

“I honestly didn’t think you’d be coming back,” said Bilbo, his head tilted slightly to one side.

Thorin shrugged, not knowing entirely what to say to that; he _wanted_ to say that he had empathized with the man’s frustration, even if he was not entirely able to understand it, and that he didn’t blame him for lashing out. He wanted to tell him that he didn’t know why he hadn't just turned his back on their incredibly brief mutual acquaintance and never come back, shrugging it off his conscience and the man as easily as you might forget anyone that you had only exchanged a handful of words with.

He wanted to tell him that Bilbo’s voice hadn’t been anything like he’d imagined.

That his face looked so different animated to when it had been still.

That he couldn’t get the image of Bilbo trying to raise his hand to shake Thorin’s out of his head, that he saw it when he lay in bed at night, unable to sleep.

That he regretted calling him a florist.

“I promised,” Thorin answered eventually, sitting down.

Bilbo stared at him, mouth opening slightly.

“Damn it,” he said, and Thorin’s head jerked upwards, his eyes meeting Bilbo’s. “I was hoping that I’d imagined making you promise to come back.”

A sudden and brilliant flush stained Bilbo’s face then, as he realised how it had sounded, his good manners no doubt lecturing him in his own mind.

“Not that I mind you coming back!” he hastened to add, “I mean… darn. I don’t know what I mean. But I’m glad that you did come back, in the end.” He shrugged, more of a gesture of confusion than anything else. “And I promise not to yell at you this time.”

“Well,” he amended after a moment of silence. “Not unless you deserve it, anyway.”

Thorin’s mouth quirked into a small smile, and Bilbo blinked, before grinning back.

“Wow, I didn’t think you knew how to do that,” he said, his voice lilting just on the friendly side of teasing. “Smile, I mean. I was convinced that brooding was your only facial expression.”

Thorin raised an eyebrow, his smile remaining, small and unsure, amused despite himself.

“You should be careful,” Bilbo warned, eyes creasing at the corner as he fought his amusement. “You might strain yourself if you carry on.”

Thorin looked down at his hands, unable to quite wipe that smile from him face. He wasn’t entirely used to people teasing him so gently; Dis told him quite often that he was a little too intimidating for people to feel comfortably joking with him, though it had never seemed to stop his brother or sister.

He didn’t see Bilbo watch him for a moment or two, before looking down at his own lap, a small, oddly-fond look on his face.

Thorin glanced up quickly, feeling a little more confident in himself.

“I wanted to apologise,” Thorin said eventually, watching the way that Bilbo’s hands clenched and unclenched against the sheets as he tried to shift himself, wondering if he should offer to help him. “For last time.”

“That’s alright,” said Bilbo, his voice a little strained as he fought to straighten the sheets around him, every movement that should have been effortless taking a painful amount of focus to achieve. “I supposed I should probably apologise as well. For yelling at you, I mean. And for asking you to come back.”

Thorin shrugged, a little surprised.

“It’s the least I could do.”

Bilbo huffed a laugh.

“I very much doubt that.”

They sat in silence for a moment longer as Thorin tried to work out exactly what it was he was going to say to the man in the bed. Frerin had been right, in his own way, when he had told Thorin that he should explain himself if it would make himself feel better, but he was also quite sure that he owed it to the man in the bed.

“I first came to see you two months ago when my sister was in a car accident,” he said finally, a little suddenly but with more confidence in his tone than he was perhaps feeling, if he was going to be entirely honest with himself. “Just a few months before that, my brother nearly died after he was attacked. My sister went into premature labour and we didn’t know if she _or_ the baby would make it. I went to get coffee but I then found your room, and I came in and sat down before I even realised you were in it. And then a nurse came in and told me that you didn’t get too many visitors, and then I... I stayed. And I talked to you. And then I came back and talked to you some more. That’s why I’ve been coming to see you. Because… it helped.”

Bilbo glanced over at him, catching sight of the frown that had crept across Thorin’s forehead as he had spoken, huffing a silent little chuckle to himself at the sight of it.

The news was perhaps unexpected, but made sense, when Bilbo took a moment to think about it. He had spent some time trying to work out why the man had been visiting him, and this reason was as good as any.

“You’re being a little over-dramatic, you know that?”

Thorin’s head jerked quickly up in shock, his face shifting into something stern and a little unimpressed. It was so much at odds with the little smile he had worn before, and the open and honest frown and frustration that had been there just a moment previously.

“Drama queen,” Bilbo continued, jokingly, the sudden softness in his tone the vocal equivalent of a gentle shoulder bump. “Look, I understand that you feel guilty, I do. Because what you’re trying to tell me, if I understand correctly, is that you came in here when you were feeling awful, and you used my comatose body as a free therapy service, right?”

Thorin winced, not quite registering the light-hearted way that Bilbo had said it, the clear lack of anger in his voice.

“And that is a pretty strange thing to admit to, do you know that? Well, you clearly know that, you wouldn’t look so worried if you thought it was normal. And I can't say that I'm entirely comfortable with it, but it isn't like we can go back and change it. And, you know, I’m glad that it helped you.”

Thorin was staring at him again now, the surprise clearly written across his face.

“That’s it?”

Bilbo shrugged.

“What do you want me to say? You’re clearly feeling bad enough for the both of us about it.”

Thorin continued to stare, disbelieving, and Bilbo shrugged.

“I don’t even _remember_ it, so it isn’t like it is much skin of my nose. And at the end of the day, if the coma managed to achieve _something,_ even if it was just helping one man feel a little better, then, well.”

He smiled, a genuine and honest smile.

“We all have to look for silver linings, you know. Didn’t you ever learn that, growing up? It would drive you a bit crazy only to see the grey in the clouds, rather than the promise of blue skies behind them.”

Thorin quirked another small smile, ever so slightly ironically at the unnecessarily poetic response; he couldn’t say that that was the way that he usually looked at things, but then, he was willing to accept that maybe he did look at things a little less optimistically than some people would think was healthy.

“We’re alright, okay?” Bilbo told him. “Let’s start again.”

He reached out a hand, a little shakily, but there was a proud flicker through his eyes that Thorin noticed when he was able to lift his hand properly this time. Thorin put out his own hand in turn, taking Bilbo’s perhaps a little more gently than he would normally have done, and they shook hands. His skin still felt a little papery, a little unhealthy, and as he squeezed he felt as if he could feel every bone in in his hand, every one of them bird-fine and fragile beneath that unhealthy skin.

“Bilbo Baggins,” the man said, his tone so much warmer and less annoyed than it had been the last, the first, time.

“Thorin Durin,” he answered, a coil of contention loosening in his chest.

“Besides,” Bilbo rejoined, “I think the flowers make up for a lot of it, okay?”

“Okay,” Thorin repeated, his gaze a little warm.

Bilbo’s eyes were green, he noticed now, finally, a warm green that bordered almost on hazel. Thorin wasn’t sure at what point in his visits he had begun to wonder what colour they were behind those closed lids, but he knew that he was glad to have finally discovered.

He realised, perhaps a little late, that he was still holding on to Bilbo’s hand, but rather than dropping it as if their very skin were on fire as he had done when he had felt Bilbo’s fingers twitch against his, he let go slowly, lowering their hands as he did, so Bilbo’s hand was almost back down on the bed by the time their touch parted.

Bilbo quirked an eyebrow at the unnecessary treatment, and Thorin thought for a moment that he might get a swift rebuff for that, for treating him as if he were some kind of invalid, but then Bilbo’s shoulders slumped a little, as if he had changed his mind, and he drew his hand back into his lap, glancing instead at the bouquet of sunflowers on his bedside table.

It made Thorin oddly glad to see them there, rather than on the windowsill, but he couldn’t for the life of him work out why.

“Perhaps,” he began, before losing what he was going to say, and trailing off instead.

Bilbo tilted his head to one side, watching him with slightly narrowed eyes, as if trying to place exactly what Thorin had been going to say.

“If you wanted,” he said, a little carefully, as if afraid that Thorin was going to bolt from the room, “if you wanted, you could come and see me again. If you like, of course. I mean, not that you have to, I’m not going to make you promise this time, I… oh, bother.”

There was another flush of embarrassment across the bridge of his nose now, down the still-too-pale line of his throat, and Thorin felt his own cheeks heating slightly in response.

He did want to come back.

He wasn’t entirely sure how he would be able to justify that desire to those who would no doubt ask, let alone to himself, but he did.

But it seemed as though he had exhausted his ability to express himself for one day, and the agreement caught in his throat. He nodded instead, perhaps a little hesitantly, but Bilbo seemed to understand, and sent him a friendly, relieved smile in return.

There was something just a little charming about that smile, just as there was something almost infectious about his laughter, something that made Thorin want to continue responding in turn.

“The nurses keep asking me who you are, by the way,” Bilbo told him conversationally. “I’ll be glad that I can finally say that we’re not really strangers anymore. I think the ‘mystery coma man’ has become quite the soap opera drama on the ward.”

Thorin rolled his eyes, despairing a little at himself.

“Is that what they’re calling me?”

The corner of Bilbo’s mouth twitched upwards, just a little.

“You’re the crazy man going around talking to comatose strangers, you only have yourself to blame, don’t you?”

Thorin shook his head, glancing at the floor again to hide his smile. His cheeks hurt just a little, and he wondered when the last time he had smiled this much had been. “You’re a mouthy little thing, aren’t you?”

Thorin regretted that slipping out, for just a moment, but then Bilbo gaped at him, eyes bright with amusement despite himself. He continued to stare, clearly momentarily speechless, and Thorin’s shoulders shook with a silent, brief chuckle.

“Well,” he said, finally. “Well.”

Thorin grinned then, wide and unfamiliarly brightly, and Bilbo bit his upper lip.

“Well,” he repeated, once more. “You should do that more often, you know.”

“What?” Thorin asked, momentarily confused.

“Smile, properly,” Bilbo told him. “It suits you.”

Thorin was definitely blushing now, but for some reason, he couldn’t quite bring himself to care.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://northerntrash.tumblr.com/
> 
> I was tempted to make this about cleaning, to vent after a day of scrubbing my flat, but have some Bofur instead. Because we all love Bofur. ♥

“So, the mystery man had a reason for visiting after all,” his nurse remarked as he wheeled Bilbo to his physical therapy session.

Bilbo nodded, a little absentmindedly, hand resting on the arms of the wheelchair that he was starting to resent, just a little: not for its presence, although he still wasn’t entirely fond of it, but because he still wasn’t strong enough to wheel himself. Honestly, just that small bit of freedom would be enough for him to feel infinitely better about his situation.

It wasn’t so much that he minded talking about Thorin, but the intensity of the interest that the various members of staff had was a little intimidating at times. Even though it had been over a week since Thorin had first come to see him, and two days since the second visit, the nurses were still bringing it up, and even his doctors had found out, and kept making off-hand jokes about his ‘mystery visitor’ when they were trying to put him at ease. Whilst he understood that they were trying to cheer him up, the thought of the man made him feel a little... awkward.

At least his own extended family, whose visits had been frequent since he had woken up, hadn’t found out: if they had been talking about it too he might have ended up braining himself with the vase on his bedside table.

The knowledge that he would be sure to remove the sunflowers from the vase first only irked him a little more.

But Thorin had clearly struck a chord with the staff: he doubted that it was because they were bored, because they certainly had enough tasks to do themselves. Rather, he thought that the mystery had caught their attention for other reasons.

“He is rather attractive, isn’t he?” the nurse continued, “and to think, he kept coming even though he didn’t know you at all.”

Bilbo nodded again, humming a small noise of agreement.

At least their second visit had gone better than their first; Bilbo was more than willing to admit that a lot of that was because he had been in a much better mood himself. Most of the time, despite his habit of isolating himself and being a little grumpy towards unwanted visitors, he was an amicable man, willing to overlook most slights and be pleasant to even the most obnoxious of his relatives. But when Thorin had first come to visit him he had been feeling vulnerable, uncomfortable: it had been intimidating, lying on that bed barely able to move, talking to an awkward and unfriendly stranger whose motives had been something of a mystery to him.

The fear that he would never be able to fully recover, that he might never manage to regain what he had lost physically and mentally whilst in that coma, had put him on edge, made him hostile and unhappy. That first week had been incomparably hard, but the following days had shown him that he would improve, and that he would, with enough hard work and effort, end up back on a path he was content with.

It might be a long struggle, and it might be painful and hard, but he was becoming more and more sure that he would continue on, regardless.

In just a week he had managed to school his body into being able to sit up by himself. That in itself might not have seemed like any real achievement to anyone else, or even to himself just months before, but right now it really made all the difference. When Thorin had returned for the second time, he had felt unfeasibly proud of himself for being able to sit himself upright after the nurses had lifted him into the bed to talk to the man; he had been struck by the vast difference between the first visit and then, at the start of the second, and it had lifted his spirits.

He had never understood just how many muscles went into simple activities, or just how much some of those muscles worked to achieve things that you took for granted, like being able to hold something, or to roll your shoulders, or to stretch. Bilbo didn’t think that he would ever be able to take any of it for granted again.

“It’s strange though, you know,” the nurse continued, oblivious to Bilbo’s thoughts. “We were all thinking that there must have been some deep-rooted reason for why he was visiting you, and it turned out that all the guy wanted was someone to talk to.”

“Yeah,” Bilbo replied, his voice a little distant. “I suppose everyone needs it, now and again.”

If he was being honest with himself, he was a little more annoyed with Thorin than he had admitted to the man; his quick forgiveness had come in the face of the man’s obvious guilt. It had been clear to Bilbo that Thorin had been aware of the moral problems of his actions, and that had made the irritation shrink down inside him, into something he had managed to put aside.

Perhaps that wasn’t the most healthy of responses, backing up his honest and gut reaction, but he hadn’t been able to do anything else.

Thorin was… interesting. Bilbo really didn’t think there was any other way that he could describe the man. There was an intensity about the way he acted, the way that he _reacted,_ that made Bilbo want to tease him and draw the man out of himself. He had done so idly in the beginning, but the way Thorin had responded, with a slight flush and a quirk of a smile, had been oddly charming.

He really didn’t want to follow that chain of thought, and he pushed it quickly from his mind.

“Do you know when I’m going to get better food?” he asked the nurse, wanting to change the conversation before he thought too much about Thorin.

The nurse laughed.

“You’re still not ready for too much, Mr Baggins. Your stomach will react if we give you anything too flavoursome or complex. And with the food you’ve been getting, we can keep a good eye on your calorie intake: we need to get you weight back up.”

Bilbo resisted the urge to roll his eyes at that; it was the same response that he had been given every time he had pushed the question. The various approved meals he had been given were bland, and even the fruit that visitors kept bringing (why on earth did people think that those stuck in the hospital wanted fruit, anyway? If he saw one more grape he might be forced to throw them out of the window. He wanted sausages, damn it, and maybe a meat pie. Definitely chocolate. But really, not another tray of pre-sliced watermelon) were strictly regulated, so that he didn’t overindulge in even natural sugars.

“Bah,” he responded. “Are you sure you couldn’t smuggle me in one pork pie?”

The nurse laughed at that as they arrived at the physio rooms, which was the response he ended up getting every time he tried to ask.

“Not quite yet,” the nurse replied. “But soon. You are doing very well.”

“Mr Baggins!” came the cheerful voice of his physical therapist. “Good to see you again. When are you going to be moving down to our ward permanently, hey?”

Bilbo shrugged, proud of himself for managing the gesture.

“As soon as they let me, Bofur,” he replied. “And I told you, call me Bilbo.”

Hopefully he would be able to move out of the ICU within the next couple of weeks, once he was a little more physically able: it would mean a greater freedom and better food, and he wasn’t afraid to admit that that was a high priority on his list. He rubbed at his wrists as the nurse left, wincing a little at the sharpness of the bones.

He had lost a huge amount of weight whilst in his coma, although he had been told that that was normal, and he still was not entirely used to the frailty of his limbs, the loss of the small pouch of weight he had always comfortably carried. A life of gentle indulgence had left him with a softness about his body that he had found himself missing greatly the last couple of weeks: his body did not entirely feel like his own, anymore. He had avoided looking in the mirror since the first time he had caught sight of his gaunt, overly prominent cheekbones and pale skin, shadows dark underneath his eyes. He didn’t need any more reminders of his physical frailty than he already had, thank you very much.

“So,” said Bofur, taking hold of Bilbo’s wheelchair and pushing him over to the large, inelegant chair that they usually started in, “I’ve heard on the grapevine that you’re becoming something of a celebrity on the ICU.”

Bilbo glared at him.

“Not you as well?” he snapped, though Bofur returned the harsh tone with an easy, teasing grin.

“Is it okay if I lift you?” Bofur asked, even though it would have been very easy for him to just do so without bothering to ask. It was the kind of geniality that Bofur just seemed to exude, and that Bilbo very much appreciated. It was nice that he didn't just assume; it left him feeling as if he still had some modicum of control over his life.

“Of course,” he answered, trying not to wince as the man’s broad, tanned arms hooked under his knees and around his back. Bilbo twisted, and took hold of the chair arms, their usual routine in this situation.

“Ready?” Bofur asked, and Bilbo nodded.

This was sometimes the hardest part of the entire exercise: he pushed himself up on the arms of the second chair, as much as he was able, and Bofur took the rest of his weight, shifting him across and hooking the wheelchair out of the way with one foot.

Bilbo settled into the uncomfortable chair with a grunt of exertion. It didn’t get any easier, though he did manage to lift more and more each session.

“Thanks,” he said, and Bofur grinned in turn.

“Let’s work on your dexterity, first.”

He passed Bilbo the rubber balls that he used to practise his grip, still something he occasionally struggled with, and he began as usual, squeezing then releasing the balls.

As much as he appreciated the nurses, Bofur was becoming something closer to a friend than anything else now, and never seemed to react to Bilbo’s impatience at himself. Bilbo supposed he saw a lot of it in his line of work, but he still valued it.

“How is the family?”

Bilbo scowled.

“Overbearing. I’m just remaining thankful that my least favourite cousin and his wife haven’t come to see me yet.”

Bofur raised an eyebrow as he gently shifted Bilbo’s grip.

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” he said, wincing as one hand began to cramp: a common and irritating occurrence. “Although, now that I think about it, it is a bit peculiar. Lobelia doesn’t normally hesitate in coming over when she isn’t wanted and wasn’t invited.”

Bofur nodded, taking the ball out of the cramping hand and running gentle but firm hands over his fingers, pressing and massaging until the cramp eased out.

“How do you do that?” Bilbo asked, wonderingly. “How d’you know when something is hurting?”

Bofur grinned, a wide and easy smile.

“Comes with the territory. And I have a few overly-present relatives myself, I don't blame you for not exactly enjoying their visits.”

Bilbo put Lobelia and Otho’s uncharacteristic absence from his mind as his flexed his hand again, smiling reassuringly as Bofur shot him a questioning look, making sure that the pain really had gone.

“Your dexterity is getting much better. We’ll be able to move on to other things soon.”

“Like walking?” Bilbo asked, his voice raising a little in excitement.

Bofur nodded.

“We want to get you up and going as soon as possible. But you know, it’ll take weeks until you’ll be out of your wheelchair, whenever we start.”

Bilbo hummed in acknowledgement.

“It will be good to start though, you know?”

Bofur did. “Torso twists next.”

Bilbo groaned. “They’re the worst.”

Bofur cuffed him gently around the back of his head. “You think every exercise is the worst.”

He got a warm grin in response to that. Bantering back and forwards with Bofur was uncommonly easy.

“I’d work a lot harder if you’d agree to sneak me in some chocolate.”

“And risk the wrath of nurse Dori? No thank _you._ ”

Bilbo chuckled: the head nurse of the ICU was indeed a terrifying creature, overly protective of all of his patients. He ran his ward with an iron first, and Bofur certainly wasn’t the only member of staff unwilling to go against his word for fear of retribution, no doubt in the form of a scathing and diamond-sharp lecture.

“Will no one bring me food?” Bilbo moaned plaintively, still grinning, as he began his torso twists, Bofur’s hand unobtrusively at his back, making sure that his posture remained straight and upright. “My kingdom for a cheese and pickle sandwich.”

Bofur shook his head, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

“You need to stop thinking about food so much, you’re only torturing yourself.”

Bilbo rolled his eyes.

“The day I stop thinking about food is the day I stop breathing.”

They continued with the exercises, gently teasing each other as if they were old friends, and it was a while until Bofur mentioned Thorin again; when he did, Bilbo hadn’t quite been expecting it, and he averted his gaze to the ceiling to stop himself from showing any particular reaction. Apparently he hadn’t been particularly successful, because Bofur raised his eyebrows knowingly at him.

“Oh?” he asked, eyes twinkling. “Something you’re not admitting?”

“Not quite,” Bilbo said, “I don’t even know the guy.”

“No,” Bofur agreed, gently stretching out Bilbo’s leg, until it was entirely straight, before bending it back at the knee again. The movement sent unpleasant twinges up and down Bilbo’s leg and across his lower back, but he bit back his small noises of pain. “But you’re going to see him again, aren’t you?”

“Maybe,” Bilbo agreed, “if he comes back.”

 “Do you want him to?”

Bofur grinned, and it was a bright, knowing smile.

Bilbo shrugged, trying for nonchalance.

“I don’t mind,” he said, hoping his tone didn’t betray the strange niggling desire for that very thing that had bothered him ever since he had seen Thorin again, for reasons he was unwilling to think about.

Bofur looked back down at Bilbo’s knee, humming a noise that was neither an agreement nor a disagreement, though he didn’t bother trying to hide his expression.

Bilbo hoped that he hadn’t given himself away.

He rather doubted that he had been successful.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many apologies for the late update, and the number of reviews/messages I haven't replied to! I have managed my move and made it back to the family for a few weeks, but in the process my latop has died... I'm still going to try and update regulalrly, but it might slip into one chapter every two-to-three days until it is repaired, as I don't have regular access to a computer. :( On the plus side, I've rough drafted thirty pages of various fics, drabbles and oneshots, to be typed up on my return. So expect to be inundated when my precious is fixed. :3
> 
> Also, have some extended brother-sister teasing in honour of my own bro, who has been an angel and is letting me borrow his own laptop rather than struggling on without anything at all.
> 
> It'll also be a little quiet until things come back online, but feel free to come and find me on tumblr: http://northerntrash.tumblr.com/

Thorin's phone rang as he was finishing off the designs on a boutique engagement ring: he fished into his pocket with his left hand, neither lifting his pencil from the paper nor checking the face of his phone for the caller ID.

“What?” he barked into the phone, rolling his eyes as his sister's chiming laugh met him in return.

“Aren't you a ray of sunshine?”

Thorin put down his pencil with a sigh. “What do you want, Dis?”

Dis seemed to realise that she was interrupting, because she stopped laughing, his voice settling in to her usual warm tone, only slightly tinged with the tiredness of a mother with a young infant.

“I need a favour; could you give me a lift tomorrow?”

Thorin picked the pencil right back up again, returning to his commission.

“Sure,” he replied, frowning a little at the drawing: there was something not quite right about it, but he really could not put his finger on what it was.

“Thorin, you're normally supposed to ask when and where to, before agreeing.”

Thorin shrugged, regardless of the fact that Dis was not able to see it. There was a long pause as Dis waited for him to say anything more, to perhaps argue or rebuff her, but he was still distracted by this commission, that just would not quite do as it was told, and so simply waited for her to tell him exactly what he was supposed to be doing. He could almost hear Dis rolling her eyes at him.

“Vivi has a meeting out of town, so she needs the car, but it is Kili's check up, and it is just such a hassle trying to manage all his stuff on the bus. I'd ask Frerin, but I know he already has plans. Do you mind? The appointment is at one. Are you sure you'll be able to leave work?”

Had Dis been there in person, he would have put his own hands up in surrender at the onslaught of her concern.

“Calm down, Dis. Dwalin can handle anything that happens, alright?

I'll be around at yours at half twelve.”

“Thank you, Thorin.”

“Alright,” he acknowledged, a little uncomfortably, a he always felt whenever his family thanked him for something tat he would have done without any praise or provocation. He had been about to say goodbye and hang up the phone (the few times he had dared to cut the call without saying goodbye to Dis first had resulted in a verbal lashing so terrifying that he rather thought he had been left with emotional scars),but before he could do so Dis cut back in once more, her voice deceptively innocent.

“Frerin mentioned that you might appreciated going to the hospital, anyway.”

Thorin almost dropped his phone on the floor.

“What?” he managed after a moment of spluttering that felt far longer than it actually had been.

“I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“Sure,” said Dis, her tone teasing. “Whatever you say.”

She hung up before Thorin could say anything, apparently not being too concerned about her own hypocrisies, and Thorin filed away the draft for now, knowing that trying to finish it when he wasn't in the mood would only result in a below average piece. He sketched rough geometric designs on a scrap of paper instead as he tried to fight down the rising urge to break something. He should have know that Frerin wouldn't be able to remain silent forever. 

It wasn't until he pulled up outside Dis' house the next day that he managed to learn what, exactly, his younger brother had been saying, though not without laying some lengthy ground work first, trying to coax exactly what Dis had been told.

“You seem awfully concerned about what Frerin has been telling me, Thorin,” Dis remarked from the backseat, one hand cradling Kili's cheek where the young boy lay in his car seat.

No one had commented on the fact that, ever since her accident, not only had Dis been unwilling to drive alone, but whenever Kili was also in the car she would slip without a word into the back seat, her hand touching his cheek or his hands or his hair for the entire journey. Fili thought it was a great adventure, always getting to ride in the front seat now, and neither of her brothers nor her wife quite wanted to say anything on the matter. It couldn't go on indefinitely: when Dis' car was finally repaired and returned she would no longer have an excuse to avoid driving, and would either have to admit to her fears or overcome them, but for the meantime they were all unwilling to press her on it, and were content to leave it as an unspoken understanding until the day it became a problem.

“Oh, shut up,” Thorin said, staring resolutely at the road.

Dis peered at him from the backseat, her mouth opening a little in shock.

“Good lord,” she said, after a long moment. “You're actually blushing. I thought Frerin was having me on, but you're honest-to-god pink. Who is this new friend of yours?”

Thorin's hands tighted on the steering wheel almost to the point of discomfort.

“He's not a friend,” he bit back, his voice perhaps a little harsher than he had meant for it to be. “No?” asked Dis, her tone clearly conveying the fact that she didn't believe a word of it.

“Who is he then?”

“He's just...” Thorin trailed off, unsure how to finish that sentence. “He's just a man. That I've been to visit.”

Dis was watching him, quite carefully, and might have commented on Thorin's expression, if it hadn't been for the unexpected distance in his gaze, the firm finality in his tone that spoke of something that was not hers to pry into, she might have pressed him for more: instead she settled back in her seat, occasionally pulling a face at her young son, finally up to the appropriate weight, nearly ten weeks after he had been born. They sat in companionable silence for the rest of the drive, Kili blinking quietly between his mother and up at the roof of the car as they went.

Thorin came in with Dis to Kili's appointment, and sat in silence against the wall as his younger nephew was weighed and measured, his heart rate and body mass scribbled down in his notes.

He gritted his teeth and held his hands in close fists as Kili began to cry at the cool hands of the nurse who extended each of his limbs out for measurement, his tears only intensifying as a blood sample was taken for testing: as much as Thorin understood the necessity of what they had to do, it didn't make watching his nephew in pain any easier. There was something so wrong about watching a baby be subject to a medical examination, something painful about seeing such a tiny body in a uniform glass-sided crib, covered in the unpleasantly green paper that was always laid out across examination beds.

Dis touched his shoulder lightly, standing between Thorin and the crib, reaching in with her other hand to stroke her son's stomach soothingly, Kili's sobs decreasing ever so slightly.

“Nearly done,” she said, her voice light and gentle, a reassuring tone so familiar that for a moment Thorin was sure it was their own mother.

He wasn't sure if it had been meant to make him feel better, or Kili, but he found himself desperately clinging to that tone as the nurse continued her physical examination of the baby.

Thankfully it was soon over; the nurse proclaimed Kili to be in the best of health, well on the road to recovery, and began to organise his next appointment with Dis. Thorin reached over to pluck the young infant from Dis' arms, and his sister let him, with a small smile, completely lacking in impatience: she quite understood the need to reassure yourself of a child's well-being with physical touch.

Thorin held Kili close to his chest, and the baby nestled closer to the well-known presence of his uncle, the warmth of his chest and the familiar smell of him, all pencil shavings and silver-polish after a morning at work.

“You're alright,” he told his nephew, who seemed to agree,staring up at Thorin with bright blue eyes (Dis was still convinced they would change into her own shade of dark-brown, though she had said the same about Fili, whose fair hair and grey-blue eyes came straight from Frerin and their mother). He huffed a couple of choking sobs before quieting down entirely, hands that were finally becoming chubby waving for a moment above his head, trying to reach for Thorin.

“There you go,” Thorin said, jiggling the baby in his arms gently, a slight rocking to sooth him a little more.

He glanced up to realise that the nurse was gone, and that his sister was regarding him with a fond, part-exasperated look.

“Daft old thing,” she told him. “You're as soft as cotton wool inside, aren't you?”

Thorin levelled her his best unimpressed expression, and she shot him an amused look in return.

 “Are we going to go and visit your _friend_ now we're done?” asked Dis, blithely ignoring Thorin's unamused glare. “Seems a shame to come all this way only for you to not get to see him.”

“Not a chance in hell,” Thorin rebuked quickly. The thought of Bilbo having to meet his sister, without any warnings, made him feel a little ill: the only worse idea was the post-comatose man being forcefully introduced to Frerin, or perhaps Dwalin.

“Are you telling me,” Dis said, her hands on her hips as they made their way down the corridor, as bright and as chemical-smelling as always, “that you are ashamed to introduce not only your lovely sister, but your _beautiful_ new nephew to this friend of yours?”

Thorin rolled his eyes at her melodramatic tone, but found himself glancing down at Kili, still in his arms, the young boy's eyes beginning to droop a little, the examination having quite clearly worn him out.

Whilst he certainly had no desire to bring Dis to Bilbo's room, there was a strange little part of himself that would have liked to introduce Kili: some of it, he was sure, would be that he was able to finitely prove to the man that he had been in the hospital originally for his birth (not that Bilbo had ever questioned his honesty). But, he was also aware of the fact that a lot of it was just because he would enjoy doing it for the sake of it, just to see.

He shut down that thought quite quickly. It wouldn't do to begin thinking about seeing Bilbo with Kili in his arms. He shouldn't be imagining the merging of his family life and this odd new friendship, and he didn't want to think about why he was even picturing it.

Dis was watching him, though Thorin was too lost in thought to notice it. She propped herself up against the wall as they waited for the lift to arrive to take them back down to the foyer. Thorin looked utterly lost in thought, and though her brother was an introverted soul, it was not usually to this depth.

“Aright,” she said, “alright, I'll stop. But if you do want to go and say hi, just quickly, whilst you're here, Kili and I can go and wait in the car.”

The lift pinged open, and Thorin eyed his sister as they entered.

“Perhaps,” he replied, after a long moment, and though his voice was neutral, he still found himself passing Dis the car keys silently.

Dis nudged him as the lift reached the ground floor, reaching to take her son from him.

“Go on then.”

The lift doors opened onto the foyer, but rather than pressing the button that would take him back up to the ICU, Thorin took a hesitant step after his sister, as if still unsure. Dis glanced over her shoulder at him, before rolling her eyes.

 

“Seriously, go.”

Thorin nodded, but glanced across the foyer with an odd expression, quickly and reflexively, his eyes turning immediately back to his sister as he realised what he was doing. It was, however, too late to avoid Dis noticing: she followed his gaze... to the gift shop.

“Oh,” she crowed, her voice brimming with exaltation. “Oh, I _see._ ”

Thorin knew he was sunk as Dis shifted Kili in her arms just enough to hook an elbow quickly through Thorin's arm, so that she could tow him over to the shop. Thorin considered resisting, but gave in when he realised that to do so was meaningless: Dis would continue to tease him regardless.

“Well, brother dear, what do you normally get your _friend_?” she asked as she pulled him inside. “Fruit? Balloons? A teddy bear?”

The young man behind the counter glanced up at them.

“Flowers, actually,” he answered, before blushing right down to the roots of his red-brown hair. “Um, I mean. Good afternoon, can I help you?” The latter part of his statement was rushed, tripped over the words as Dis and Thorin turned to stare at him in mutual bewilderment.

The man – not really a man, more of a boy than anything else, for he couldn't have been anything older than sixteen, working a part time job – shifted uncomfortably under their joint gaze.

“Sorry,” he said, still blushing. “My, umm, brother, he works in the ICU, and umm...”

He trailed off, and Thorin thought despairingly of all the knowing smiles that the nurses brought him, the way his bouquets had always been placed in vases when he had brought them to a sleeping man's room (both comatose and the more regular kind of sleep). Clearly the network of gossip was much more extensive than he had realised.

“I _see,_ ” said Dis, grinning. “And what kind of flowers does my dear brother normally buy? Roses, perhaps?”

The boy offered a confused, sort-of-smile as Dis, obviously a little blind-sided by her enthusiasm.

“Um, no,” he answered, carefully, as if he were being examined. “I, uh, don't think it is normally roses.”

They both turned to Thorin, staring expectantly, and he shrugged, being deliberately obtuse.

“They were flowers,” he dead-panned. “Don't expect anything more than that from me.”

Dis sniffed.

“I still think a balloon would be better.”

“Dis, there is no way in hell I am buying him balloons, or teddy bears, or _guardian angel charms_ ,” he said, perhaps a little too emphatically as he caught her eyeing a display of that very thing. “And it was Frerin's idea, anyway.”

That was something of a half-truth, but right now he would take any way out that he could. From Dis' rather pointed gaze, he rather suspected that she knew it, too.

He sighed. This would go on forever if he let it: his sister would continue to tease him as long as she possibly could.

“You,” he said to his sister, pointing at her to emphasise his point, “keep your nose out.”

He scooped a bouquet out of the display, a selection of white and yellow tulips, and put them down on the counter as he glared at his sister, who eventually tossed her hair over one shoulder with a humph.

“Well, me and your nephew will see you soon,” she told him, leaving the shop, though not before sending him a rather meaning wink. “Have fun.”

Thorin turned back to the boy behind the counter, who was staring at them both, wide-eyed; he groaned as he pulled out his wallet.

“Not a word to anyone, alright?” he told the boy, who nodded very quickly in return, perhaps almst too enthusiastically.

It was with a long, exasperated sigh that Thorin handed Bilbo the bunch of flowers several minutes later; he rolled his eyes at the questioning look that the action gained him.

“It's nothing,” he said, his voice a little strained. “You just have no _idea_ the trials I went through, to get those flowers.”

All in all, he might have felt a little worse about it, but there was something about Bilbo's laughter that managed to lift his spirits inexplicably.

“Laugh all you want,” he told him, running a hand through his hair, his voice more than a little strained still. “But don't expect any more visits if you find it so amusing.”

He tried to tell himself that it wasn't satisfying at all to see how quickly Bilbo stopped laughing, but it was rather obvious, even to himself, that he was lying.

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *waves* hi guys, you still here? I'm still alive. 
> 
> Come talk to me: http://northerntrash.tumblr.com/

The next few weeks passed somewhat uneventfully, the days fading quickly one into another as they are wont to do after a long and stressful period of time, the peace merging one week into another; it with was almost with surprise that Thorin realised that he had known Bilbo Baggins for close to two months, and that his nephew was well on his way to his tenth month, that time had managed to flit by quite so quickly and without any major incident since Dis' accident.

Unless, of course, you include his initial argument with Bilbo, though Thorin was quite content not to do that, thank you very much.

He counted his blessings: months passing without any drastic incident could only be a good thing. For all that he had no problem with looking after his family, it was unquestionably better for these things to not happen, for the peace that came from them, for finishing up work at a reasonable hour and being able to go for a run without stressing about where he needed to be, for not having to worry that the additional stress of Dis' stay was also impacting Frerin's recovery, for these slow summer evenings spent on the back patio at Dis', Fili playing on the swings on the lawn and Kili sleeping in Thorin's arms, Frerin and Vivi exchanging lazy barbs as Dwalin manned the barbecue and Balin smoked his pungent cigars, the heady and warm smell of cut grass and sleepy evening-blooming flowers drifting across the dusky air; for his family being complete.

But if there were moments, perhaps when Vivi made a particularly clever snipe or Dis commented on the new bedding plants that she was meaning to buy for the garden, that Thorin found himself looking for an empty seat that wasn't even there, for an additional figure who would be able to toss back a returning barb, who would offer to help Dis pick flowers, who would pass Dwalin a beer as he flipped grilled meat, who might lean a little closer to him, and stroke a finger across the crown of Kili's head as the infant lay in his arms, before glancing up at Thorin, and offering that warm, familiar smile; well, if he occasionally imagined that, then it was no ones business but his own.

Likewise, there was no reason that he had to explain the fact that these recent weeks had passed with more visits that he was willing to admit to either of his siblings to the man in the hospital, though if he was completely honest with himself, these visits were also fewer than there might have been had he not been overly concerned with both pushing his luck at keeping his visits off his brother and sister's radar, and with testing Bilbo's own patience. He had a feeling that Bilbo would not quite be able to overcome his own good manners to tell an unwanted visitor to leave, for all that he was razor-sharp with his wit and his retorts when occasion called for it.

Thorin feared becoming a burden to the man, worried that his visits would become an obligation for Bilbo to sit through should he appear too frequently; he made sure that he limited himself strictly, and tried to watch as carefully as he could for any sign that Bilbo was growing impatient with his company.

He found that he was becoming more and more concerned with what Bilbo was thinking, the more often he went to visit him.

There was something peaceful and comfortable about the small hospital room, with rain or sunshine or the steady grey overhang of cloud outside, something reassuring that made his shoulders slump in relieved tension, that made his smiles come easier and his frowns less. It felt isolated from the rest of the world, cut off from his life and his stresses, some other world in which all he had to focus on was trying to make his friend laugh, watching the way the taut skin of his neck moved when Bilbo turned his head, trying to create that unfathomably rich smile creep across his face with flowers.

He ended up listening to things that he would never have even thought to be interested in; the way that the editing process of books went, the proper care for antique silver, the meanings of flowers. Bilbo spoke with a comfortable ease that spoke of a contentedness about himself and his life; he would be speaking of his family and would tangent off, engaging and witty, not hampered by the self-consciousness that made so many people lose the thread of what they were saying.

Thorin found himself picking new and unusual combinations of flowers, just to see how Bilbo would react; whether he would flush with embarrassment at some message that he then always refused to explain after that blush, or throwing his head back in laughter at some unintentionally improbable or ridiculously unpleasant one.

“I'm glad you keep visiting me, you know,” Bilbo admitted one day, turning his face up from a bouquet of flowers whose names Thorin didn't even know; there was a strange sort of flicker across his countenance, as if he were quickly suppressing something, but Thorin barely caught it.

His eyes were warm, shot through with affection and sincerity.

Thorin had just nodded, and settled down in the chair, wondering why something warm had flared in his chest at that.

They certainly grew closer in the weeks that passed, and Bilbo began to confide more and more in Thorin, about his life and his past, his future and his current struggle to write a follow-up to his last book, whose success had been a surprise even to him. Small talk was limited by Bilbo's own confinement within the hospital and, to a great extent, his own room; they found themselves slipping into more and more serious and personal conversation topics because of this.

In turn, Thorin eventually began to open up a little as well, though to a significantly smaller extent: he would occasionally chip in, however, perhaps with a story about something he had done recently with his nephew, or anecdotes from when Frerin and Dis had been young, and he had been raising them. Bilbo always watched him quite carefully when Thorin came out with this sort of thing, eyes searching his expression for something that Thorin could not quite place.

There was an ease between them now, a closeness, and Thorin began to feel sure that he heard the way that Bilbo laughed in voices echoing in from the street; more times than he cared to remember he flinched at the noise of a passing stranger, as he was forced to abort a movement towards someone who could not be Bilbo.

There was very little, he was coming to realise, that he would not do for the man, a fact which was soon enough put to the test.

It was with some trepidation that Thorin came in to the hospital one day, holding a bag he had borrowed from Frerin (without asking; permission would have required an explanation, after all). He didn't think he had worn a bag of any kind, apart from utilitarian rucksacks on outings with Fili, since he had been in school, and the large, over-the-shoulder satchel made him feel uncomfortable; he carried it awkwardly, sure that people were looking at it.

As he reached Bilbo's door he caught the eye of a nurse sat behind the nurses' station, and raised his eyebrows questioningly.

“Can you make sure no one disturbs us, for at least twenty minutes?” he asked, his voice stern. “I have confidential paperwork that Mr Baggins needs to go over.”

The nurse nodded slowly, her mouth opening a little and her forehead crinkling as if she were going to question him, but then she shot him a knowing look.

“Of course. His doctor has just done the rounds, so no one should be in for at least another hour.”

Thorin fought the urge to blush: there was a knowing tone to her voice, as if she suspected him, though he couldn't help but reflect that it rather implied that something illicit was going to happen behind closed doors. Well, it was, but certainly not in the way that she suspected.

He nodded, a little awkwardly, and knocked on Bilbo's door, entering after hearing the man call out an invitation to enter. He had never forgotten, not after that first meeting.

Thorin shut the door behind him with an audible exhale of relief, immediately taking off the shoulder bag.

“I think the nurses suspect something is going on.”

“Really?” asked Bilbo, eyes a little bright with excitement. “What did she say?”

Thorin nearly answered, explaining the implication of her tone, but at the last minute stopped himself: it would be more than a little awkward to explain to the man that the nurse seemed to think that the two of them were in some way romantically involved; they were just friends, after all.

Thorin cleared his throat.

Just friends.

“Nothing much,” he answered eventually. “Here.”

He held out the bag to Bilbo, lying it flat, slipping into the chair by the bed and watching Bilbo's eyes light up as he pulled the contents of the bag out.

“Oh, Thorin,” Bilbo said, a little breathlessly. “You wonderful, wonderful man.”

“Extra large, stuffed crust, extra cheese, extra bacon,” Thorin recited as Bilbo opened the lid of the pizza box. “I hope it is still warm.”

Bilbo stared rapturously at the pizza box in his hands, inhaling the smell of the luke-warm food.

“Do you know how many grapes I've eaten these last few weeks? How many bowls of porridge?” Bilbo said, his voice euphoric. “How many wonderfully nutritional and healthy meals?”

Thorin couldn't help but smile a little as Bilbo's hands hovered over the giant pizza.

“It has been utterly horrible. I hope you weren't expecting a piece, by the way.”

Thorin put up his hands in mock-submission as Bilbo pulled off the first slice and bit into it, his eyes distant and awestruck.

“I wouldn't dare to try and get in between you and your first pizza in nearly seven months,” he answered, “I raised two teenagers, I know when to get out of the way of food.”

Bilbo laughed around a mouthful of dough and cheese, shooting a guilty look towards the door.

Thorin shook his head; the nurses would be furious at him if they found out that Thorin had helped Bilbo break his strict food plan, but he had found himself unable to resist the pleading tone in Bilbo's voice as he had asked for his help in procuring some take-away food; he might have been able to resist still if he hadn't turned those wide eyes on him, pitiful and so clearly guilty for asking.

He had sighed, and nodded.

It was worth it though, he couldn't help but think, for just how happy Bilbo had been at the sight of the pizza. It made him wonder what his expression might be if he were faced with high quality food, from a restaurant or something Frerin might make (his brother was unexpectedly talented in the kitchen, something that took everyone who had just met him by surprise).

“We'll go get some proper food when you're out,” Thorin said, without quite thinking, only realising what he had proposed when Bilbo glanced up at him, chewing slowly, looking a little surprised. “I mean... you'll probably have a load to do, of course. And if you'd want to. You... we don't have to. Unless you'd want to.”

Bilbo seemed to realise that Thorin needed help, and nodded, a little too quickly and enthusiastically for it to have been pure politeness motivating him.

“That'd be nice,” he said, after he swallowed his mouthful. “I'd like that.”

“Ah,” replied Thorin, and he could almost hear his brother's sarcastic voice in his head, complimenting him on his eloquence. “Good. Okay.”

Bilbo smiled at him, the corner of his mouth twisting up a little in something close to surprise, and pleasure; Thorin tried to force back the warmth that the look brought to his face, and he wasn't entirely sure if he was actually successful or not.

He realised with a start that Bilbo had already finished the pizza; he stared at the open box in shock.

“That was... quick.”

Bilbo shrugged, stuffing the box back into the bag before rubbing his arms self-consciously.

“I've lost far too much weight,” he replied, staring balefully down at the sharp ridges of bone protruding from his wrists. “I still don't feel quite right.”

“I think you look fine,” said Thorin, a little awkwardly, and a dark and sudden flush crawled up Bilbo's throat, still exposed as his hair continued to grow out. He hadn't meant it as it had come out, not in that way, he'd merely meant that Bilbo didn't look unhealthy, which was true; he'd gained back at least enough weight that uncomfortable hollow shadows to his cheeks had gone, the pallor of illness fading out to a more reassuring tone.

He had managed to embarrass himself twice in a short space of time, but the fond look he was shot in return almost made it worth while.

Bilbo yawned, rolling his shoulders, and Thorin and to almost physically sit on his hands to stop himself from reaching out to stroke the pad of his thumb across the curve of his jaw.

He was not entirely sure at what point along the way his desire to see the man had developed into something... more, at what stage the urge to feel his skin to see if it still had that papery sickness about it had shifted into the urge to feel for the sake of it, to touch, to feel the warmth of skin underneath his own. To be honest, he didn't want to try and work out at what point that had changed.

To do so, he thought, would make it somehow brittle, would break it down into something hard and too real for now, something too much for what they currently were. There was no point in even considering anything, Thorin knew, until Bilbo was released, no point in working out whether he should do something about his feelings before he was able to enact any potential plan of action.

That still didn't stop him from picturing Bilbo sat with his family, from imagining what it might be like to kiss those eyelids, the faint blue veins that traced across them when he hadn't had enough sleep.

Bilbo was watching him, head tilted to one side, and Thorin realised with a start that he had never answered Thorin's awkward compliment; he had simply been watching him as Thorin had lost himself in thought.

“Thank you,” he said, eventually, and the affection in his tone suddenly made breathing a little difficult.

Thorin smiled, a small twitch of a grin in return, and huffed an audible exhale.

Bilbo's eyes were bright, and Thorin watched the way he was turning a stray petal from a drooping bouquet between his fingers.

He was gone, he realised, a little absent-mindedly. Utterly sunk. Head over.

And he couldn't quite bring himself to care.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO MANY APOLOGIES FOR MY LATE UPDATE. <3
> 
> http://northerntrash.tumblr.com/
> 
> Also, have I mentioned that some pretty things have been drawn for this? No? Then go and have a look at these lovely things:  
> By shamingcows: http://shamingcows.tumblr.com/post/89661048243/fan-stuff-for-northerntrash-and-her-not-a  
> By MangaSock: http://mangasock.tumblr.com/post/91261778217/fic-rec-fic-rec-fic-rec-one-sided-conversations

Bilbo blinked, a little sleepily, up at the ceiling, and fought a moment of sudden and unexpected panic as it swam unfamiliar into view.

It was a moment of white-hot panic, rolling across him and quickening his pulse before he was able to remember where he was: still in the hospital, just in a different place now. Just the day before he had been moved from his room in the ICU down to the ward closer to the physical therapy rooms, and his panic was pushed aside in a rush of gratitude. The move was indisputably a good thing: it meant that his health had been checked off, had improved enough that they were willing to loosen the tight reigns of their hold over him.

The doctors were now quite convinced now that there was no permanent brain damage that might yet reveal itself (and hadn’t that been a relief, to have that finally confirmed for him?). He would still be under the strict watch of the nurses, but at least no longer the militant eye of nurse Dori, who guarded his ward as a dragon might hoard his treasure.

It was a little disconcerting to wake in different room after so long staring at the ceiling of another; it had been over two months since he had first woken, and in that time he had gotten to know that room very well, particularly in those initial days when he had not even been able to move his head. The ceiling, he was convinced, would forever be etched into his memory, from the faded paintwork to the hairline crack above the door, to the slight discolouration next to the light fitting.

He stared at this new view for quite some time, slowly flexing his fingers and toes as his body woke up.

It was a rest day from his physical therapy, and he was in no hurry to properly rouse himself: without the long hours with Bofur there was very little for him to do, and he found himself bored beyond measure by the monotony of these days. He had attempted to convince his nurses to let him continue with his therapy every day, but they had been adamant that he could not. Apparently pushing himself too hard would actually work to the contrary to his recovery, although he was quite unwilling to believe it.

Bofur has sworn that he _was_ recovering though, and they had begun the tentative steps towards Bilbo’s _own_ first steps, back on his feet again. Bofur was quick to warn him that it would be neither as painful nor as easy as he seemed to believe, but all he really cared about was that soon they would begin, and that soon he might finally be rid of his cursed wheelchair. His strength seemed much returned, at least to him: over the last few weeks he had regained all that he had lost in his upper body and in the dexterity of his hands, but he had been told that his legs would be another matter entirely.

Legs, of course, were forced to carry the weight of the entire body; Bilbo was reminded of what his grandmother had once told him, after she had been confined to a wheelchair by the crippling grip of arthritis. 

"Value your knees, my lad," she's said, her cool hand ruffling his curls. "They carry the second heaviest burden of any part of you, after your heart."

He'd smiled, and kissed her cheek, but it was only now that he was truly leaning to appreciate his legs as she had told him to. 

But regardless of how difficult the road to full recovery might be, walking would allow him a much greater freedom than he had right now. Not only would he be able to first hobble around on crutches rather than be pushed on four wheels, he would then be able to developed it into independent step.

And that would only be the beginning, had it not already been enough: he had been promised that once he was fully mobile again he would be able to leave the hospital. Admittedly at first it would only to walk the grounds, to get the fresh air he craved and the connection with the outside world that he so longed for, but following that he might be able to leave for an afternoon or so, if he had some person who might be willing to watch him – a taxi would be able to ferry him to his cousin Drogo’s house, so that he could see the curve of Primula’s pregnant belly before she was due.

And finally, of course, he would be able to _leave._

Bilbo dearly missed his house and home, the welcoming wooden panelling of his small nook of a study, the heavy weight of the pillows on his bed, the fresh washed fabrics of his tablecloths and napkins, worn soft and gentle with age.

It was strange, he thought to himself as he watched the dappled shadows of the leaves outside playing across the ceiling, the things you found yourself missing about home once you had left – the line of warmth down one side of his body when he sat in the armchair next to the fire, the warm scent of evening primroses blooming in the twilight as he sat in the bench by his back door, smoking as the sun sank low below the horizon; and gods above, did he miss the bitterness of his pipe-tobacco.

Some nights he woke and lay in the quiet, wondering how he had never noticed how comforting the scratch of the branches of the great oak in front of his house against his bedroom window really was.

Bilbo was rooted in the house, and the trees and the flowers and his mother's old herb garden: it was his fortress, and weren't they right when they said that an English-man's home was his castle? Being away from it left him feeling oddly vulnerable, as if the anchor of some lifeline to his past had been dropped, and he was scrambling to reach for it again.

He missed the way that the mint and rosemary plants that lined his garden path would brush against his hands as he wandered down to the apple tree, and the portraits of his parents above the mantle, the crisp pages of his notebooks and the scratch of his father’s fountain pen against the pages (and how his editor laughed that he still wrote his notes by hand, in a pen that still required a bottle of ink to fill the cartridges).

And wasn’t that just it, though: it was not simply the house, and his home, that he missed, but having something practical to _do_ with his time: he had written something, in some way or another, ever day for the last ten years about that house, and his longing for home was wrapped tightly up with his boredom. His physical therapy took up hours in the day but physical exertion was simply not the same as his writing. Stretching his physical fingers, he thought ruefully as he did just that against his cool sheets, was not quite the same as stretching his writing ones: he wished to put pen to paper one more, to lose himself in worlds of his own creation, characters sprung from the cavernous depths of his own imagination, those deep chasms of possibilities.

A nurse came in, and he was forced to sit up and let him go about the morning routine of checks, from heart rates to blood pressure and his circulation: he had always been a little uncomfortable with people touching his feet, and he did not enjoy the light pricks with a needle he had to endure on his soles as a part of the check to make sure that feeling was still present in all of his extremities. The man was rather impossibly tall; he had to bend quite low to reach.

“Sorry,” his nurse said with a shadow of a smile as Bilbo winced. “Nearly done.”

Bilbo waved at him a little as he tried to school his face into something a little more neutral.

“Not your fault.”

That same twist of a grin was shot in his direction, and Bilbo turned his head to one side.

“I’m Bilbo, by the way. Bilbo Baggins. Nice to meet you.”

The grin was a little wider this time, and perhaps a touch more genuine, turning his broad and stern face into something a little warmer.

“Beorn,” he replied. “Breakfast will be ‘round soon. You should eat it all, little one, you need to put on some weight.”

Not too long ago, such a statement might have offended Bilbo, but thing had vastly changed since then. Instead he threw his head back and laughed. The nurse, his wide shoulders blocking Bilbo’s view of anything but the man himself, blinked down at him, and Bilbo reached out to pat his hand gently.

“I think we will get along quite well.”

Unfortunately Beorn was forced to leave almost immediately, to Bilbo’s annoyance: he had thought he might be distracted from his long and dull day with company, but it seemed that it was not to be: his mind drifted instead to Thorin.

The man had been the only consistent distraction he had had since waking, other than his physical therapy, and Bilbo had been somewhat concerned that his growing affection for the man had simply been the result of him being caged up in here, and his contact to the outside world limited. It would not have been that dissimilar to stockholm’s syndrome, he thought with a wry, introverted smile: trapped in his room, with limited contact with the world and with people, he had at first feared that any feelings he might have had were simply the result of a desire for a confidant and friend.

In a way it would almost have been easier if that was the case.

Bilbo turned his head to his bedside table. Though he had let the nurses throw away most of the bouquets in his room, the most recent one from Thorin he had insisted on having moved with him: the tulips had barely begun to droop, and the thought of throwing them away made him deeply uncomfortable for reasons that he was quite unwilling to face. The nurses had given him sideways looks at his insistence but had said no more, despite the obvious amusement in their eyes.

Thorin was… Thorin was not what he had expected.

He was funnier and warmer and sweeter, and underneath the gruff exterior and the stern expression was a spark of something brilliant, something engaging, the kind of charisma that made men sit up and pay attention, whether they wanted to or not: the gentle way that he spoke of his nephews and the swift cut of his humour warmed Bilbo’s chest, and he was almost beginning to _worry_ about the depths of his affections. 

After all, Thorin was only visiting him because he felt guilty, only coming because Bilbo was an invalid in need of company, and Thorin felt he had something to atone for.

The thought made him sit back against his pillows, a little forlorn.

Breakfast came and went, as eventually did lunch: the rain beat steadily against the window as the afternoon drew on, long and slow and full of nothing but the wanderings of his own mind. He wondered why he had not thought to ask someone to bring him a book, or one of his notepads, or even his laptop: even a pack of cards to play lonely games of solitaire would be something to distract him. He jumped a little as a knock came from the door, and he struggled a little upwards as he called out for whoever it was to enter: he found himself smiling as Thorin came in.

“I didn’t expect you today,” he said, quite honestly. “It’s only been a day since your last visit.”

Thorin made a noise that wasn’t quite a murmur of agreement nor one of disagreement, running a hand through his hair.

“I was spotted this time,” Thorin said as he shut the door with a quiet click behind him, apparently content to ignore Bilbo’s greeting in his customary manner. “I… struggled to find your room-”

“You mean you got lost,” cut in Bilbo, eyebrows raised. It was intended in jest, but the sudden flush across the bridge of his nose made him wonder if he had struck a chord. Thorin turned his head, and cleared his throat, and Bilbo made sure to suppress a smile.

“Well. A nurse saw me, and he saw the bag, but he… didn’t seem to mind.”

Bilbo let his smile out in full as Thorin turned to him, his expression a little abashed.

“He told me to make sure the… _little bunny_ ate it all.”

Bilbo stared at him. 

Was he quite serious?

"Little  _bunny?_ "

Thorin shrugged, raising his hands in surrender. 

"His words, not mine."

Bilbo was a little distracted by the strange nickname as Thorin swung the strap of a bag from his shoulder, bringing it to his attention. From the bag – this time a rather large gym bag that stood out a mile was coming a rather appetizing smell, and Bilbo reached for it greedily.

“How did he see inside the bag? X-Ray vision?”

Thorin scowled, and Bilbo bit back a laugh.

“No… I assume he smelt it. Nose like a bloodhound.”

Bilbo unzipped the bag, letting out a moan that might have been considered being indecent had it been in another situation; he entirely missed the wide-eyed look that the man received from Thorin, who was still hovering awkwardly beside his bed.

It was only as he was pulling the large bucket of fried chicken from the bag that he realised why Thorin was simply standing: this room was distinctly smaller than his one in the ICU, and didn’t have a chair for a visitor, though there had been space for one. Bilbo could only assume that it must have been snagged at some point by a visitor to another room, and they had not gotten around to moving it back. He shifted across the bed a little, forced to move his own legs under the cotton to make room.

“Here,” he said, patting the bed beside him. “Sit.”

Thorin stared at him, and Bilbo wondered for a moment what was going on in the man’s head: his brow was furrowed, and his eyes a little distant, but after a long pause he took up the offer and perched up next to Bilbo, leaning back against the headboard.

He had thought that Thorin might sit at the other end of the bed, facing back at him, and there was a certain and unexpected intimacy in sitting like this, side-by-side.

Bilbo could almost _feel_ the warmth of his body against Bilbo’s own arm, for all that they were not touching. He busied himself with his chicken, trying hard to push these feelings from his mind.

“S’good,” he told Thorin, mouth full, and the smile that was directed towards him was soft, for just a fleeting moment, before it disappeared again.

“I’m glad.”

The proximity seemed suddenly to make them awkward; they sat silently side by side, neither quite able to meet each other’s eyes. Bilbo leant back against his pillows after a while, done with the food, and stared back up at the ceiling above him; he felt his eyes begin to droop, and shifted just a touch closer, without him quite meaning to.

Bilbo didn’t notice when he drifted off, slumping slowly against the man next to him, and he certainly was too deeply asleep to notice when Thorin, with a slow and hesitant care, lifted an arm to rest gently around Bilbo’s shoulders.

He did notice, however, the lingering warmth against the pillows when he woke several hours later, as if Thorin had remained beside him for quite some time.

He pressed his smiling face into the sheets, and tried his hardest not to hope.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It really was all going too well, wasn't it? Thirteen is an unlucky number. ♥

Things seemed to be going so well.

Of course, that was when the setbacks came.

The lawyer stood at the end of Bilbo’s bed – no chair had yet materialised in his room for visitors, a fact which was now beginning to annoy him, though it never had before – and wrung his hands, awkwardly, in the face of the wrath of the frail man on the bed in front of him. Bilbo wondered what short straw the middle-aged man had drawn to be stuck with the unfortunate and unpleasant duty of speaking to him.

“I know that this isn’t what you would want to hear, in this situation, Mr Baggins,” the lawyer began, though he trailed off without saying anything else, as if he wasn’t sure what else there was to say.

“And there is nothing to be done?”

Bilbo caught sight of the sudden tightness about the man’s face, a forced mask to keep whatever feelings he had under wraps. No doubt it was usually more successful than it was being right now, but hospitals never brought out the best in people.

The lawyer shook his head whilst at the same time inclining his shoulders, a neutral motion that didn’t really indicate much of anything.

“The terms of your father’s will was quite specific, and was written before you turned eighteen. It was never amended.”

Bilbo nodded, and turned his face to the window, where watery sunshine was doing its best to force its way through the clouds, although it wasn’t being too successful; the small sycamore tree outside of his window seemed to wave cheerily at him in the breeze, and the sight made him feel a little ill.

“So that is it, then,” he said, more to himself than his visitor, who shifted a little, clearly uncomfortable.

The lawyer was refusing to meet his eyes now, glancing between the floor and the bedside table, where his tulips were beginning to brown despite his best attentions in their vase. It sparked something hot and irritable in his chest, a sudden flush of anger that bit deep in his throat and would not be swallowed down again.

“You don’t have to stay,” Bilbo told the man, his tone harsh and impolite, and he almost regretted it. “Far be it from me to keep you now your errand is complete.”

His mother would scold him for his poor manners, and he did feel a little guilty – after all, it was not the man’s fault that he was forced to come with such ill news – and the man’s mouth opened just a fraction as if he were about to protest, before it shut with an audible clatter of his teeth. He nodded at Bilbo, backing slowly out of the room, but not before placing his card gently on the ledge of table at the end of his bed.

He reached for the flowers in the vase, searching for the comfort of the silken petals, but a twinge in his lower back ended up jolting his hand, knocking petals from the flower entirely. Bilbo stared at the dulled brightness of them, stark against the wood, and with a sudden moment of anger batted the vase clean from the table.

It didn’t break, landing against the soft carpet with a thud, but the flowers spilled from it, stems breaking and the flower heads falling apart; the water soaked across the dark carpet, and frustration stole his breath as he watched the dark stain spread across the carpet.

 

\--

 

“Are you alright, Bilbo?”

He gritted his teeth, and nodded, a little shortly, at Bofur; the poor man didn’t deserve the brunt of his bad temper, but he was not quite able to bite it back in time. The anger and frustration from the visit of the lawyer earlier in the day had not been assuaged, and if anything had simply grown throughout the long and dull afternoon.

“This can wait another day, my lad. Don’t push yourself too hard, we can always try again tomo-”

“I’m _fine,_ ” he snapped, hands clenching tight against the metal bars. “Let’s just get on with it.”

And wasn’t it just typical that such news had arrived on the day he had been so looking forward to, the day when he was finally to stand, by himself, for the first time: here he was, his feet planted firmly on the ground whilst his upper arms, clinging to the metal support bars on either side of him, carried the bulk of his weight, and yet he could not bring himself to celebrate the feeling of being upright once more. Bad news has a habit of clinging to the spirit and dragging it down, and this news was no different: any pleasure he might have felt was mired by the festering irritation and pain that had lodged itself in his chest and would not be released.

“How are your arms? Tired?”

He shook his head resolutely. They _were_ beginning to ache, and his thighs were burning at the unexpected weight that his arms were not fully able to lift, but he would remain upright for as long as he physically could.

Bofur was eying him, clearly disbelieving, but seemed eventually to decide not to disagree with him, merely gently prising at Bilbo’s fingers to shift them a little. And if he noticed that Bilbo’s arms were shaking a little, that the collar of his loose t-shirt was dark with the sweat of exertion, then he said nothing.  

He knelt down in front of Bilbo, glancing up at him.

“Are you _sure?_ This is plenty enough for one day if you don’t think you are ready. Just standing after so many months is quite a feat in and of itself, lad.”

“Bofur,” Bilbo cut across, a subtle warmth in his tone that belayed his fondness for his physical therapist despite his bad mood. “Would you shut up and start?”

Bofur grinned up at him, and reached for Bilbo’s left leg first, making sure first that his weight had been shifted over to his right. His hands, one wrapped around his ankle and another cupping the back of his calf, were a strong and warm point of contact upon which to focus; he lifted Bilbo’s leg, forcing it to bend gently at the knee, and Bilbo winced despite his promise to himself that he would hold back any outward show of pain.

He stared at the door, trying to distract himself from the ache and throb of his depleted muscles as his leg was gently bent back and forth, and Bofur began to switch between his two legs. Suddenly there was a shadow of a figure at the glass in the door, and a quiet knock; Bofur called out for whoever it was to enter before Bilbo could say anything to protest.

It was Thorin that strode through the door, stopping a little short when he saw the position that Bilbo was in, holding himself up on the metal bars, feet against the ground, and the surprise on his face was evident: Bilbo felt a hot flush of embarrassment when he realised just how frail and useless he must look, how hopeless and helpless. Thorin’s face registered little emotion but the heavy sternness that it usually did, and Bilbo almost wished to flinch away from it, from the knowledge that he was so much _less_ than he had been.

“Hello there,” Bofur called out from in front of Bilbo, breaking the moment of silence between the pair. “M’Bofur, nice to meet you.”

Thorin blinked down at the physical therapist, as if he had not even seen him in the room.

“Thorin Durin,” he offered, his voice low and quiet. His eyes flickered back to Bilbo almost immediately.

“I apologise for interrupting,” he said, and though his tone was sincere it irked Bilbo.

“Well then you shouldn’t have,” he snapped, his embarrassment and frustration manifesting itself in misplaced anger, guilt at that piling on top of it. His grasp shifted as Bofur lowered his foot back to the ground, and a twist of pain shot up from the back of one thigh to his lower back, the source of regular pains recently: he shuddered, the pain suddenly too much, and his arms gave in under their own burden. He collapsed down, too suddenly for him to even be able to make a noise of surprise, his legs folding under themselves agonisingly as he fell down against the mats underneath the bars, his wrist jarring painfully against the metal supports.

Bofur leant back on his legs mouth opening to say something, but Thorin got their first, falling to his knees beside the bars and reaching for Bilbo.

“Are you alright?”

Bofur had not reached to help Bilbo; he was an experienced enough physical therapist to understand that his role was about more than providing physical independence – it was about mental independence, as well. No one reacts well to a shock, and he was careful to remain on the sidelines until Bilbo had gotten over his surprise and the shame of falling had passed, to ensure that helping Bilbo would not come at the expense of his pride.

Thorin had no understanding of that.

He reached for Bilbo, trying to help him upright with firm but gentle hands around his upper arms, only to have Bilbo push his hands angrily away.

“Get off, I’m fine.”

Thorin sat back, surprised by the venom in Bilbo’s tone.

“I was only trying to help.”

“Well, I didn’t _ask_ for it.”

Bofur’s eyes, wide and regretful, darted between the two of them; this was hardly the first time he had seen such an argument, and nor would it be the last, but he hated to watch them none the less.

Bilbo pulled his arm out of Thorin’s grip, struggling to push himself back into a seated position. His legs were cramping now, screaming in protest at the unexpected exercise and the unwanted fall, but he managed to shift his pain into an expression of anger, and directed it at Thorin rather than his own crippling sense of frustration. A deep and sullen scowl overran Thorin’s expression, and his shrug, when it came, was almost aggressive.

“Fine,” said Thorin, rising to his feet. “Have it your way.”

He stood and practically stormed out of the room, the door slamming behind him and echoing around the suddenly too-quiet room. The pair of them sat in silence for a long moment before Bofur, with a sigh, reached to stretch out Bilbo’s legs, shaking his legs at his felt the taut line of muscle. His fingers went straight to work, rubbing slowly and thoroughly, easing the singing ache of the cramps.

“Well, I think that is enough for one day, don’t you?”

Bilbo’s shoulders sagged, and the smile he sent at Bofur in return was weak, and half-hearted.

It took some time for the cramp to ease, and the series of cool-down exercises and stretches that  had to follow took even longer; his irritation had eased into something less tangible and overrun with guilt by the time he was helped back into his wheelchair and taken back to his room. A part of him had perhaps hoped that Thorin might be there regardless, perhaps waiting to receive or to be offered an apology, but the room was empty, looking oddly desolate with its now-empty vase on the bedside table.

And there, lying on the bed, was a large box of chocolates, an elegant slate grey box, with a scrap of paper clearly torn from a receipt. Bofur didn’t say anything when Bilbo made a small, unintentional noise, but he did shift the box a little closer after he had helped him back onto the bed.

_I hadn’t brought you any dessert yet._

And then a number, scribbled onto the paper with such force that the paper had dented.

There was nothing else, but the message was clear: Bilbo would have to let Thorin know if he wanted to see him again, would have to take some kind of active role in their strange little friendship if he wanted it to continue.

And he did.

He stared down at the paper for quite some time after Bofur had left, feeling quite horribly bad, his mind drifting from the pain in his legs and back, to the bad news he had received earlier, to the harsh words spat between him and Thorin; then around again, in full circle once more. When the door opened some indeterminate time later he started, and looked up hopefully, forgetting for just a moment that Thorin had always, since that first visit, knocked quite politely.

Gandalf offered him a small smile as he shut the door behind him.

“My dear boy,” Gandalf began, perching on the end of the bed. He crossed one leg, his ankle resting over his knee, looking uncommonly comfortable despite the awkward height of the bed, lowered down to help Bilbo get in and out of it. “I heard the news about your father’s house.”

Bilbo rather wanted to ask quite _how_ Gandalf knew, but rather suspected that asking such a question would only result in a flippant brush off or an ambiguous answer that would be neither of use nor comfort to him.

He simply shrugged, instead.

“The matter is done.”

Gandalf shook his head, his rather wiry silver hair a little messy, as if he had been running his hands through it quite regularly.

“Well, as if I have lived to see the day that your mother’s son would simply _give up._ ”

Bilbo scowled at him, a rather unfriendly expression that he did not regret in the slightest – what are old family friends for, if not to be honest to, even if that honesty is not the friendliest?

“The lawyer said there was nothing to be done.”

“Well,” said Gandalf, clearing his throat a little. “Well indeed. Nothing to be done. I see. And if that is what you believe, then perhaps you should not bother to fight for it.”

Bilbo’s frown deepened, his mouth tightening.

“Otho was named the intermediary between me and the estate when my father passed away, but he made no inclusion that that was on the assumption that I was not legally an adult; they were in the legal right when they took over my father’s house.”

Gandalf hummed.

“But that does not quite mean that they are in the right to _remain,_ young Mister Baggins.”

And with that he got to his feet, and padded out of the door, without looking back.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I missed writing texts; I forgot how much I enjoyed doing them for 'Candid'.

He was too much of a coward, in the end, to call; for the first time since his family had brought him over his bag of things he plugged in and charged his mobile phone, and immediately shook his head.

Since he had woken he had shied away from doing so, fearing the number of messages he would have to receive. As he had expected, it had been an overwhelming number, and he quickly deleted his entire inbox without reading one of them, not quite feeling up to the task of going through what was no doubt an endless stream of ‘get well soon’ and ‘we must meet up when you’re well’ messages, as sincere as they were irritating.

Bilbo stared at the phone for a very long moment until he quickly opened up a new message, typing as quickly as he possibly could.

* * *

 **21:58                     14/07/14**  
To: Thorin  
It’s Bilbo, thanks for leaving your number. This is Thorin, right?

* * *

He sent the message immediately, before he could think better of it, and sat back against his pillows with a sigh of relief.

He was not normally the sort of person that would cling on to his phone after sending a message, waiting for the reply, but he found that he was not quite able to place it back on the bedside table. He ran his fingers reflexively over its case, staring across the room at the wall. 

The phone felt awkward and uncomfortable in his hands; it had been so many months since he had last used it, and he was struck suddenly with his isolation, locked away from the world in here. All his social situations were in this room or around the hospital; it had been over half a year since he had spoken to someone on the phone, made an appointment, gone shopping, ordered dinner in a restaurant.

Bilbo twisted the sheets in his hands, feeling suddenly and cripplingly anxious: had the text sounded strange? Unfriendly?  

But then his phone buzzed in his hands, and he felt a crash of relief. He scrambled to open the message, as if it might disappear if he didn’t get to it in time.

* * *

**22:01                     14/07/14**

From: Thorin  
It is. I’m glad you got in touch.

* * *

Bilbo exhaled audibly, his hands shaking just a little. Thorin had replied. Not that Bilbo could really have believed that he didn’t want to talk to him, Thorin was the one who had left his number after all, but still. He’d  _replied._

* * *

**22:06                     14/07/14**

To: Thorin  
Me too. I’m sorry for biting your head off the other day. I wasn’t at my best.

* * *

Thorin had answered without any apparent hard feelings, but he was not comfortable carrying on talking without offering at least something of an apology. But it was a long ten minutes until Thorin replied, leaving Bilbo shifting awkwardly in his hospital bed, wondering whether he had been stupid to bring up their previous argument.

* * *

**22:17                     14/07/14**

From: Thorin  
Don’t mention it. Everything alright?

* * *

Bilbo chewed on his lower lip for a long moment before replying.

* * *

**22:21                     14/07/14**

To: Thorin  
Yeah, its fine. Busy?

* * *

The reply came almost instantly this time, startling him as he had been anticipating another long wait. He fumbled with the unlock, having to try twice before he managed to open it successfully. 

* * *

**22:22                     14/07/14**

From: Thorin  
Meant to be watching my nephews, but Fili got too excited and won’t go to sleep.

* * *

Bilbo huffed a laugh behind his hand, picturing Thorin scooping up a no-doubt giggling young boy and depositing him back on his bed, probably having to stop himself from smiling at his nephew as he did so. He could almost see Thorin, eyes a little tired but creased at the corners in affectionate exasperation.

And then, after tucking Fili in one last time, he would go downstairs, sit down next to him and drag the pad of his thumb along the line of Bilbo’s jaw and-

Bilbo shook his head.

He wouldn’t be there, would he?

Why would he be there?

* * *

**22:24                     14/07/14**

To: Thorin  
Oh dear, have you tried singing to him? I bet that would send him off.

 **22:26                     14/07/14**  
From: Thorin  
Not sure what you’re trying to say about my voice, but I’ll give it a go.

* * *

Bilbo rubbed the back of his neck: he remembered now why he had always found text messaging a little frustrating: no matter how hard you tried, you always ended up being a little unintentionally insulting, or else misinterpreting what someone else was saying to you. It was extraordinarily different talking to people without actually being able to hear the inflection of their voice, without seeing the flickers of their expression.

* * *

**22:31                     14/07/14**

To: Thorin  
No! I didn’t mean it like that! Your voice is lovely, not boring at all.

* * *

Once again, he was left waiting some time for a reply, fidgeting and chewing on his lower lip, trying his hardest not to keep checking his phone: there was no way he would miss the sharp vibration of an incoming message, although his mind seemed convinced that he might have done, his fingers constantly itching to reach and unlock the screen.

* * *

**22:45                     14/07/14**

From: Thorin  
Well, it worked, anyway. He’s fast asleep now. You think my voice is lovely?

* * *

Bilbo blushed, one hand reaching to cover his mouth as he realised just what he had said. The problem was, he couldn’t teally deny it; Thorin’s voice  _was_ pleasant to listen to.

* * *

**22:48                     14/07/14**

To: Thorin  
Well, yes. I mean, its calming. I like listening to it.

* * *

And that itself was not a lie. There was something about the low timbre of his voice that soothed some ache deep in his chest, eased out knots of fear and tension that he hadn’t even realised that he had felt.

It was as if Thorin's voice recalled some childhood memory, some sweet and singular moment that lacked any context or time, only the softness and gentleness left to him now. When he lay back, his body tired and hurting from the exertions of his recovery, Thorin sat beside his bed, that voice seemed to wash over him in a warmth, bringing him peace.

Thorin said he had spoken whilst Bilbo was in a coma; he could not remember anything that the man had said to him in those quiet hours, but he thought perhaps that some part of him had been listening all the same. There was a familiarity about it that was far too comfortable.

He longed to lean into that voice the same way that he wished to press against the heat of his skin, for comfort and for strength.

* * *

**22:50                     14/07/14**

From: Thorin  
That’s alright then.

* * *

Bilbo hid a smile behind his hand, tears pricking suddenly at his eyes that he blinked back, quiet fiercely. To think such things was ridiculous. Thorin was his friend, not his anchor, and it would do him well to remember that.

* * *

**22:51                     14/07/14**

To: Thorin  
And what about your other nephew? Is he causing you any problems?

 **22:54                     14/07/14**  
From: Thorin  
Picture attachment. [Open]  
He needs a feed, but he fell asleep when I was singing as well. 

* * *

Bilbo clicked open, and his screen slowly loaded a slightly grainy image that Thorin had attached to the message.

Thorin’s face was just visible in the corner, just his jaw and mouth and the hint of his nose; his stubble was longer and scruffier than when Bilbo had last seen him, his face almost stern but for the small quirk of a smile at the corner of his mouth that softened it, just a little. His torso took up most of the image, leaning back against some dark-coloured sofa, his shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbows exposing the lines of his forearms, tanned and strong, brushed with dark hair.

In one arm, cradled against his chest and looking almost absurdly small in comparison, was a young baby, one arm thrown up across Thorin’s chest, hand clinging tight to the fabric of his shirt as if seeking for some reassurance. He was in a blue sleep-suit, the soft and downy hair on his head stuck out at odd angles.

And how was a body not to ache at an image like that?

His knuckles pressed against his gritted teeth for just a moment.

* * *

**22:56                     14/07/14**

To: Thorin  
I told you your voice was soothing. He’s beautiful, by the way.

 **22:59                     14/07/14**  
From: Thorin  
He gets it from his mother.

* * *

Bilbo swallowed, and urged his courage forwards from where it had been hiding.

* * *

**23:00                     14/07/14**

To: Thorin  
Will you come back and see me, sometime soon, if you have the time?

 **23:01                     14/07/14**  
From: Thorin  
Of course. I might bring my nephews, some time, if you’d like to meet them.

* * *

Bilbo huffed something close to a laugh, staring up at the ceiling for a moment before he started to reply, relief washing over him quite suddenly. There was a strange pain about his chest, nothing physical, but real all the same.

* * *

**23:04                     14/07/14**

To: Thorin  
I would like that very much, I’ve heard so much about both of them. If their mothers don’t mind, of course.  

 **23:06                     14/07/14**  
From: Thorin  
I doubt they would. How is the walking going?

* * *

Bilbo shifted back against the bed, lying down properly now, on his side, tucking the blankets up and over him. He held his phone loosely in one hand, not bothering to pretend to look at anything other than the screen of it now. His eyes began to droop, tiredness catching up with him, as he typed out his reply.

* * *

**23:10                     14/07/14**

To: Thorin  
Better, thank you. My physio thinks I should try walking around the hospital garden soon, on crutches, to practise. It’ll be nice to get some fresh air.

 **23:12                     14/07/14**  
From: Thorin  
Would you like some company?

* * *

He pressed the phone to his mouth, for just a moment, though it did not stop him smiling.

* * *

**23:14                     14/07/14**

To: Thorin  
You have to promise not to laugh when I fall over.  

 **23:16                     14/07/14**  
From: Thorin  
Never.

* * *

Bilbo sighed to himself, feeling oddly light, as if he weighed little more than the sheets he lay on.

* * *

**23:18                     14/07/14**

To: Thorin  
I’d like that.

 **23:19                     14/07/14**  
From: Thorin  
Saturday?

 **23:21                     14/07/14**  
To: Thorin  
Saturday is fine for me, gives me time to practise in the ward so I don’t completely humiliate myself.

 **23:23                     14/07/14**  
From: Thorin  
You won’t. Want me to bring anything?

 **23:25                     14/07/14**  
To: Thorin  
No, I’m fine, but thank you.  

 **23:28                     14/07/14**  
From: Thorin  
Alright. Are you tired?

  **23:31                    14/07/14**  
To: Thorin  
A little. I should probably get some sleep before one of the nurses notice that my light is still on.

 **23:32                     14/07/14**  
From: Thorin  
Get some rest, then. You don’t want to get in trouble.

* * *

_Ridiculous man,_ he thought, with some affection.

* * *

**23:34                     14/07/14**

To: Thorin  
Well, night, then. I’ll see you Saturday.

 **23:35                     14/07/14**  
From: Thorin  
Goodnight.

* * *

He shut his phone with a silent click, and slipped quite easily that night into a deep and dreamless sleep.

 

 

 

 

 


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's that? Progression? Good lord, well done boys.

The sun was a little lacklustre, but the air was warm, and Thorin hovered, awkwardly, just within reach of the man next to him.

“Are-”

He cut himself off, a little impressed with himself that he was able to, as Bilbo huffed, shooting him an unimpressed glare over his shoulder.

“Enough, you.”

Thorin nodded, a little sheepishly, and kept his hands firmly planted in his jean pockets – it was the only way he could stop himself from reaching out and steadying Bilbo, who was hobbling along next to him on his crutches, moving a little awkwardly.

He’d learnt his lesson about offering help when it wasn’t needed.

“It is damn annoying,” Frerin had told him when Thorin had confessed what had happened the last time he had been to visit Bilbo, “when people act as if you are helpless. It doesn’t matter whether or not you actually _are_ , no one likes to feel like they can’t do things for themselves. Let him breathe, Thorin, and wait for him to ask for your help. You like him, don’t you?”

The question had thrown him, spoken in his light tone and offhand, as if he had been asking Thorin if he wanted a glass of wine with dinner, and Thorin had answered before he had even really meant to.

“Well yes, but-”

“Ha,” Frerin had answered, not quite in the crowing tone Thorin had expected, but with a gentle humour, as if he had guessed the ending to a film. “I knew it. Well, if you want something to happen with him, anything at all, then you are going to have to try and treat him as an equal.”

“I _do,_ ” Thorin had argued, “but-”

“No _buts,”_ Frerin had cut across. “He’s been ill, he isn’t a child for you to protect or an invalid for you to carry. People need to be able to stand by themselves, until they ask you for an arm, okay? Otherwise he’ll never be able to see you as anything other than a support, and he might not believe that you see him as more than some breakable thing you feel obligated to help. Okay?”

Thorin had nodded, slowly, processing what Frerin had said. His brother watched him, with one eyebrow slightly raised, until he had simply sighed and passed him a slice of Vivi’s cheesecake.

“Well done for admitting it, though. Dis had money on you taking another month before you did.”

Thorin was too distracted by the thoughts running through his mind to do more than shoot his brother an unimpressed glare. As much as he hadn’t wanted to tell his family that he was… _interested_ in Bilbo, it was difficult to deny the urge to stroke slowly growing curls back from the man’s forehead, the need to hear his voice, the warmth that each unexpected text message he received at odd points in the day brought to his chest; he couldn’t pretend that the way he wanted to press his mouth to the curve of his throat meant anything other than what it was.

So it was with a new resolve that he returned to the hospital: not to hinder but to help in whatever way he could, and if that meant taking a step back, then so be it.

Bilbo smiled across at him, affectionate and amused, clearly noticing the self-restraint on Thorin’s part.

“I do appreciate your concern,” he told Thorin, his voice light. “But I also appreciate the fact that you’re not treating me like I am going to break today.”

Thorin resolved to buy his brother a beer.

Bilbo bit gently on his lower lip, eyes crinkling the corners a little until he glanced away again, swallowing visibly.

Thorin looked up at the sky.

Maybe a crate of beers, actually.

The hospital gardens were not what Thorin had expected when he had tried to picture such a thing in his mind; they were much nicer than anything he had pictured, but then he supposed that the hospital, as well as being a general one, was one which specialised in physical therapy and recuperation, which was why Bilbo had not been transferred to another after he had woken.

Thorin had imagined some closed in courtyard, tucked away between various wards, with neatly manicured squares of lawn or hedges running around paved pathways: pretty enough, in a closed-off and clinical way, but hardly inspiring. But instead the nurse had led them to a pleasantly dappled space around the back of the hospital, open to the sun and shaded by a number of slender poplar trees that cast their leafy shadow across the grass. There were paths, that was true, and for the sake of the crutches they remained on them rather than venturing across the irregularly shaped areas of grass, but it felt open and relaxed, as if they were in a park or the gardens of a stately home, rather than just a few moments from Bilbo’s hospital room.

Thorin had padded quietly behind the nurse and Bilbo, in his wheelchair, carrying the crutches that the nurse had shoved unceremoniously into hands when he had arrived, watching the way Bilbo had looked back and forth as they went through the doors, his mouth curling up into a smile as the sunlight hit his face.

“It’s nice enough, isn’t it?” Bilbo had said as the nurse had left them to it, and Thorin had nodded.

“No flowers, though,” Bilbo had continued, shooting Thorin a look out of the corner of his eye that could have meant anything. “A shame, that.”

Bilbo’s shoulder had pressed against his hip, for just a moment, before he had tugged the crutches out of Thorin’s unresisting hands and had used them to heft himself out, and standing again.

He had wobbled, briefly, before smiling reassuringly at Thorin.

“I can’t walk for long, and not without using something for support, but I am getting better, see?”

Thorin had nodded, and followed him on their slow walk around the gardens, making sure to keep his hands to himself even when he had wanted to do the exact opposite.

They had kept a comfortable silence, Thorin politely ignoring Bilbo’s laboured breathing as much as he could.

“It is good,” Bilbo managed after a while, “that it isn’t raining, isn’t it? Imagine trying to do this in the wet.”

The corner of Thorin’s mouth turned up a little.

“Indeed. I can’t imagine that the crutches have much grip.”

“No,” Bilbo agreed, and just at that moment the heel of one of his crutches skidded off the path, slipping on the grass; he stumbled, his legs not quite strong enough to bear him up, and he had to lean heavily on the other crutch to right himself. Pain shot through his leg as he rested too hard on it, the muscles still not used to the weight, and he barely held back a noise of pain; instead he simply exhaled, hard and tired.

“Alright?” Thorin asked, and Bilbo nodded.

“Just… give me a minute.

Thorin hummed a noise of agreement, his hands still stuffed in his pockets, and looked up at leaves of the tree above him.

After a moment, Bilbo began to walk again, and Thorin resumed his place by his side.

“I had some bad news last time you were here,” Bilbo said after a little while. “That was part of the reason I snapped at you. I know you were only trying to help.”

Thorin shrugged.

“You already apologised, its fine. Is there… anything I can do?”

Bilbo shook his head.

“It is just some problems with my house. My friend thinks he can get it all sorted by the time I am discharged.”

Thorin chewed on the inside for his cheek, his shoulders a little tight; he wanted to ask more, but held himself in. He simply nodded, instead.

Bilbo was a little pale, he noticed out of the corner of his eye, and was leaning a little more heavily on one leg that the other, which Thorin was sure was not good for his overall recovery: he remembered only too well the pains Frerin had had in his back and shoulders when he had favoured one side of his body over the other after he had been injured. He doubted, though, that Bilbo would admit to the pain.

However, as they rounded a corner they came upon a bench, and as they drew level to it Thorin sat down, reaching for a shoe and beginning to unlace it.

“Stone,” he said, in response to Bilbo’s questioning look. “You go ahead, I’ll catch up.”

Bilbo looked at him, as if trying to work out what kind of ploy this was. But when Thorin began to lever of his shoe he sat down beside him, with a little difficulty, propping up the crutches between the two of them. Thorin hid his smile, which had grown slightly wider as Bilbo had done exactly what he had wanted him to – he knew there had been no way that Bilbo would have been convinced to take a rest without some kind of subterfuge. He shook the non-existent stone out of his shoe and put it back on, sitting back against the bench when he was done, making no move to get up and continue their walk.

It was only then that he realised just how close they were, how narrow a bench it actually was; after only a moment of hesitation he relaxed, letting the line of their forearms press together. He glanced quickly to the side, to make sure that Bilbo didn’t mind, but the smaller man was staring down at the ground, as if he hadn’t noticed a thing.

Thorin breathed out, trying his hardest not to make it obvious just how strange it felt, to be sat here in the open world, rather than confined to Bilbo’s room. He might have said something along those lines, but stopped himself at the last moment, fearing that it might be misconstrued: it was a _good_ feeling, seeing Bilbo somewhere else, knowing that they were quite the same with each other here as they were in the ward, with four walls boxing them in, despite the silted manner in which they had made their acquaintance.

Besides, he couldn’t help but notice how much healthier Bilbo looked in the sunlight, rather than the stark overhead lighting of the hospital. Natural light left his skin looking warmer, his hair a little brighter; Thorin didn’t know if it was the exercise, his improving health, or just being outside for the first time in months, but Bilbo looked _happy,_ despite the occasional wince of pain.

And he looked good when he looked happy.

It rather made him want to do this kind of thing more often, anything that might illicit these kind of expressions from him. He quite wanted to make Bilbo happy.

Thorin swallowed, and looked away once more.

Bilbo made a small noise, shifting beside him, and began to massage his thigh, his fingers running up and down the length of his upper leg, kneading and pressing, slowly exhaling as he went.

“You alright?”

Bilbo nodded.

“Just twinges. My muscles learning how to act and react again, apparently. Well, that’s what my physical therapist says, at any rate.”

Thorin’s hands fisted for a moment at his sides in frustration, before he made the conscious effort to relax them again; it was like when Fili skinned his knee, or when Frerin had been attacked, or when Dis had gone into labour. All he wanted to do was reach across and physically _remove_ the pain from the other person, take it on himself if necessary.

But he couldn’t, and he swallowed down his irritation at that fact. There was no point angering himself over something that could not be changed.

His eyes were warm when they caught Bilbo, who stared back for just a moment, before his eyes returned to his leg.

“Is it permanent?”

Bilbo shook his head.

“No, it should pass as soon as I get proper use of them back. So, you know. Keep practising, and all that.” He shrugged, gently, and sat back after a moment, as if the twinge had gone. He glanced across at Thorin, some unnamed emotion tugging at the corner of his mouth in what could have been a smile, or else nervousness, or else perhaps concern.

“I do appreciate it, you know. You coming to see me. I know you don’t have to, and you really shouldn’t feel obligated to, not in anyway.”

Bilbo’s hand rested briefly over the top of Thorin’s squeezing for a moment, before lifting off again; Thorin could not quite help himself. His hand followed Bilbo’s turning to catch the crook of his fingers with his own, pulling it back down. He stared resolutely into the distance, their hands awkwardly tangled, unsure if he had overstepped some unspoken line, but then Bilbo’s thumb ran gently along the sensitive skin between Thorin’s own thumb and first finger, shifting their hands until they rested comfortably together, between the two of them.

“I _don’t_ ,” Thorin replied after a long moment of silence. “I …”

He trailed off, unsure how he had been planning on answering that. That he _liked_ coming to see him, that he wanted to see more of him, that when Bilbo was discharged he wanted to see all the more of him, in different places and at different times? That he wanted to make Bilbo laugh, kiss him, pull him close and feel his skin beneath his fingertips? He wasn’t sure what he had been trying to say, but feared that all those thoughts were running visible across his face, and he didn’t quite dare to look across to see Bilbo’s reaction.

But Bilbo was still holding his hand, and that must have meant something.

“I’m glad, then,” came the soft response, quiet and almost lost in the sudden gust of the breeze, raking through the trees overhead insistently. “Because I like seeing you, too.”

Thorin smiled, properly and unhidden, and if they sat there quietly for longer than they might have done, neither quite looking at each other, then, well. There was no one around to see them.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: this is the second update of the day, so make sure you've read the previous chapter before you start on this one. ♥
> 
> This chapter is dedicated to Pom. Congrats on your results, my love!

Several days later Thorin returned to the hospital, sneaking in a slightly greasy bacon sandwich procured from a café down the street as he did so, which was received with a beaming smile and a long, awkward moment when their hands brushed against each other’s, and they both froze, unsure what to do.

Thorin nearly backed away, nearly pulled his hand back, but at the last moment he managed to resist, and let Bilbo brush their fingers together gently, crooking his smallest finger around Thorin’s for a brief moment before dropping his hand back into his lap with a sudden blush.

Thorin tried to fight his own flush as he sat down on the corner of Bilbo’s bed, the chair still not having reappeared.

“Sorry,” Bilbo murmured, and took a large bite of the sandwich.

“Don’t worry,” Thorin muttered back, his voice low and quiet as he looked down at his hands. “Good?”

Bilbo’s smile was back in an instant, his embarrassment apparently forgotten in lieu of the allure of food.

“You have no idea,” he replied after swallowing, “I have missed bacon so damn much.”

Thorin’s mouth opened a little as if he were going to say something, pulling up at the corner into a smile, but then he just shook his head, and laughed, missing the odd, surprised look that this received from Bilbo. When he looked at the smaller man once more he rather worried that his face bore an expression that Dwalin would tease him incessantly for, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to school it back into its normal sullen sternness.

“What?” asked Bilbo, bacon momentarily forgotten.

Thorin just shook his head.

“Nothing,” he managed, finally. “You’re just… nothing.”

Bilbo’s eyes narrowed a little, but he returned to the bacon sandwich, occasionally glancing up suspiciously at Thorin.

“Bacon,” he said eventually, “has seen me through some very difficult times. Whenever things get too hard, I think of nice, hot bacon, frying it in my kitchen on a Sunday morning, and that just gets me through.” His tone was light, teasing, but there was a certain weight to his words that made it very clear he was telling the truth.

Thorin shot him a fond smile.

“I’ll bring you a better bacon sandwich, next time, then.”

There was a sharp vibration, cutting off any reply that might have come, and Bilbo scrambled around his pillows for a moment before Thorin realised that the noise was emanating from his own pocket..

“S’me,” he said, pulling his phone out and opening up the message. “Oh, shit.”

Bilbo stared at him, shoving the last of the sandwich into his mouth.

“Wuh?” he swallowed, and pulled a sheepish face. “Sorry, what?”

Thorin was scowling down at his phone now, one hand rubbing at his rough stubble – almost long enough, now, to constitute a short beard – rhythmically.

“It’s…” he took a deep breath. “It’s my sister in law. Apparently Kili had an appointment today, and she saw my car in the car park.”

Bilbo nodded. “Okay?”

“She… wants to come say hello.”

Thorin watched the flicker of worry in Bilbo’s eyes.

“To me?”

Thorin murmured an agreement.

“But… why?”

“Well…” Thorin trailed off, unwilling to admit the truth; that his family had been aware of his slowly growing feelings for Bilbo almost as long as Thorin himself had, that just his company made Thorin noticeably lighter in spirit? That he was not normally an open man, not normally a gentle man, but that Bilbo seemed to draw out that side of him that was normally only reserved for Fili, or for Frerin and Dis when something bad had happened to them? How could he reasonably explain that?

“I suppose they’re just nosy.”

Bilbo nodded, slowly, biting the inside of his mouth.

“I guess that’s okay, then?”

Thorin rubbed at his nose.

“Thanks. I’m not sure she’d have given you much of a choice.”

Bilbo brightened, quite suddenly.

“At least it means I finally get to meet the baby, after hearing so much about him.”

As it turned out, Bilbo would meet both of Thorin’s nephews: several minutes later his room door was unceremoniously shoved open by a blonde-haired ball of energy, all flying limbs and bubbling laughter as he ran into the room and threw himself at his Uncle on the bed. With reflexes that can only be bred by looking after a small child regularly, Thorin ducked down to scoop him up before the child managed to knock his head against Thorin’s knees, pulling him quickly onto his lap. Fili’s arms latched immediately and uncomfortably around Thorin’s neck as he caught sight of the other man on the bed, ducking his face into the curve of Thorin’s shoulder and watching Bilbo carefully out of one eye.

“Hello,” Bilbo offered, sitting up a little and moving back, giving the pair of them their space. “I’m Bilbo.”

“Nice to meet you,” came a reply from the doorway, and Bilbo started, not having expected it.

Resting her hip and shoulder against the frame was a lean, toned woman, lines of muscle strong in her arms, in which was cradled a bundle that was presumably her younger son.

Her blonde hair was tucked behind her ears and she levelled Bilbo with a cool, calculative stare, though it wasn’t an unfriendly one: she almost looked amused at the sight of Thorin perched on his bed, and she quirked an eyebrow at him.

Bilbo tried to remember what Thorin had told him about Vivi; she was a little reserved, he remembered hearing, with a caustic sense of humour and a sudden, flaring temper. He had rather liked the sound of her, to be honest.

“I’m Vivi,” she continued, stepping into the room and shifting the bundle slightly so that she could free one arm to reach out for Bilbo to shake. “It’s nice to finally put a face to the name.”

“And you,” he replied, “Thorin’s told me so much about all of you.”

She seemed surprised. “Really?”

“Mmhmm.” He turned back to the young boy, still pressed tight to his Uncle. “You must be Fili, right? Your Uncle was telling me how he can run much faster than you can.”

Fili leant out from his Uncle, arms loosening slightly.

“I _always_ beat Uncle Thorin,” he said, clearly affronted by the insinuation. “ _And_ Uncle Frerin. They’re both _rubbish_ at racing.”

Bilbo nodded, keeping his face quite serious, though he was fighting back a smile: there was no quicker way to bring a child out their shell than to give them the opportunity to prove an adult wrong.

“I can imagine,” he said, and now the smile did curve over his face. “Your Uncle does seem a bit slow.”

Thorin’s mouth opened in protest, and Vivi burst out with a sudden, unexpected laugh, but a mewl of discontent from her arms cut short what might have been an impressive amount of blustering.

“Hey there,” Vivi murmured, “I thought you’d gone to sleep, little guy.”

She glanced up, catching Bilbo staring, and tilted her head to one side.

“Do you want to meet him?”

Bilbo nodded, and Thorin noted with some gratification that he really did seem eager, rather than just pretending to be so: he reached out his arms as Vivi padded near, taking the baby with ease, as if he had done such a thing many times before. Fili slipped from his lap onto the bed, moving closer to Bilbo as he cradled the babe, running a gentle finger down the length of Kili’s nose.

“His name’s Kili,” Fili informed Bilbo, with all the informed certainty of a child. “He’s still too little to talk.”

Bilbo smiled, and shifted across the bed slightly so that Fili could move a little closer, so that he could keep an eye on his brother, a job he obviously took very seriously.

Thorin watched the three of them, his two nephews and his… and Bilbo, with a small crook of a smile. Fili was leaning closer now, nerves clearly overcome with that ease that children often have, leaning over Bilbo’s arm to look at Kili.

“He doesn’t have much hair yet,” he told Bilbo, authoritatively, “and Uncle Frerin says it won’t be blonde like mine.”

Bilbo nodded, running his thumb gently, soothingly along the lines of Kili’s face.

“That doesn’t matter so much, does it?”

Fili shook his head.

“Nope. Uncle Thorin says it just means I’ll have blonde hair like Mama and Kili’ll have dark hair like Mum.”

“And like your Uncles,” he said with a smile, glancing up at Thorin.

Thorin caught his gaze and held it, for a long, sweet moment.

But Fili was frowning, shaking his little head. “Only Uncle Thorin,” he corrected imperiously, “Uncle Frerin has blonde hair like me.”

“Ah,” said Bilbo, “I didn’t know that.”

Fili’s brow furrowed even deeper, and he tugged on Bilbo’s elbow, clearly confused by something.

“But you met Uncle Frerin! He said he saw you in the hospital!”

“Fili,” interrupted Thorin, his voice low and a little sudden, at the same time as Bilbo made a rather startled noise at the back of his throat.

It was Vivi that had to cut smoothly in.

“I think Bilbo was asleep, when Uncle Frerin met him. You remember, sweetheart? Bilbo was asleep for quite a while, when Uncle Thorin first met him. We told you that.”

Fili nodded slowly, slumping back against the headboard and bouncing the heels of his feet against the sheets.

Thorin was trying very hard not to meet Bilbo’s eyes right now: the other man looked rather unimpressed that someone _else_ had been in to see him whilst he was asleep, and Vivi was quite clearly trying not to laugh.

“Oh,” said Fili, reaching into the pocket of his dark blue jumper, and pulling something out. He opened his little fist, revealing a slightly crushed buttercup, one petal bent at an odd angle.

“I forgot! I picked this for you!”

Bilbo’s mouth opened a little, though he was clearly speechless.

“I picked it in the car park,” Fili continued, clearly proud of himself. “Because Uncle Frerin says that Uncle Thorin always brings you flowers when he comes to visit you.”

There was a visible flush on Bilbo’s cheeks now, and Thorin choked, taken aback by his nephew; he resisted the urge to slap a hand across his eyes in mortification, and instead had to try very hard to avoid Vivi’s rather knowing grin, the focus of which was switching between Thorin and Bilbo with some speed. After a moment of what was clearly surprise, Bilbo reached to pluck it gently from the boy’s palm.

“Not always,” he said, softly, “but sometimes. Thank you, Fili. It’s lovely.”

Fili beamed up at Bilbo, quite taken with his new friend, and in Bilbo’s arms Kili stirred again, making a small noise, his eyes flickering a little.

“It must be very boring,” Vivi said with a smile, “being trapped in here. If there is anything you want us to bring you, just let us know, and we can find it. Books, music, food…”

Bilbo smiled, turning to pull a soft, exaggerated smile at Kili, whose eyes had just opened.

“Hello, little one,” he turned back to Vivi. “Thank you, that’s very kind, but Thorin has been bringing me food, and the hospital has a library of sorts.”

The look that Vivi shot Thorin made it quite clear to Bilbo that she had not been aware that Thorin had been sneaking him in food, and Thorin cleared his throat a little awkwardly.

“Music, then?”

Bilbo smiled. “I do miss music, but my laptop and mp3 player are locked in my study at home – my family weren’t able to get in to bring them to me, and, well. I don’t trust them with the key. I’ll be able to go and retrieve them when the nurses allow me to go out for the day, which should be soon.”

Thorin blinked.

“I didn’t know that.”

Bilbo shrugged, his eyes caught once more by Kili, whose arms were batting gently at the air. He was clearly properly awake now, and was struggling to get up: Bilbo helped him sit up in his own lap, one hand at the infant’s back to make sure he didn’t tip over.

“There you go, little guy. Yes, once I can move about on my crutches well enough, they’re going to let me get out a bit, get me ready for being fully discharged.”

Fili tugged on his sleeve.

“What are you going to do?”

Bilbo smiled down at him, letting Kili’s waving, chubby hands grab hold of his finger.

“I don’t know yet, Fili. I need to stop by my house, and by my lawyer’s office, but after that I’d like to do something relaxing. But we’ll see. I can’t drive again yet, so I’ll be a bit limited.”

“I’ll take you,” blurted out Thorin, quite suddenly. Kili turned towards his Uncle, only just noticing his presence, beaming up at him and stretching his arms out towards Thorin, who reached to take him.

“Are you sure?” Bilbo asked, waving at Kili as he stared back at him, now sat in Thorin’s lap. “I don’t mind finding a relative, or getting a taxi, or-”

“Nonsense,” said Vivi, just as Thorin opened his mouth to issue a similar protest. “Of course he doesn’t mind. And if you have time, you could come for dinner with us, afterwards. I know that my wife would love to meet you.”

Bilbo caught Thorin’s eye, looking a little helpless.

“It’ll be his first time out of the hospital in month, Vee, he doesn’t want to spend it being interrogated by Dis and Frerin.”

She put her hands up, as if in surrender, but it didn’t stop her grinning.

“Well, Bilbo, it was lovely to meet you, but we had better go – this one needs feeding,” she said, stepping forward to scoop Kili out of Thorin’s lap. “But I’m sure I’ll see you soon.”

“Mmm,” Bilbo agreed. “I do hope so. It was good to meet you, too.”

Fili grinned up at him as he slid of the bed, and Bilbo smiled back.

“I’ll look after the flower, okay?”

Fili nodded, clearly pleased by this promise. “Bye!”

“I’d better go too,” Thorin said, as the door shut behind Vivi, “I need to get some work done tonight.”

“Anything interesting?” Bilbo asked as Thorin got to his feet.

“Not really,” Thorin answered, “it’s this ring that’s been commissioned. I just can’t get it right.”

Bilbo smiled up at him, and Thorin felt his shoulders sinking, slightly, in some sort of inexplicable relief at seeing that smile.

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

They remained like that for a long moment, just looking at each other, until Bilbo fisted the sheets of his bed in his hands.

“Don’t… I mean, are you sure you don’t mind taking me out of here?”

Thorin shook his head, quite firmly.

“I really don’t. Just let me know when.”

He fumbled, suddenly awkward for a moment, with something in his pocket, before pulling it out and tossing it on the bed.

Bilbo stared at the mp3 player, biting his lip, trying not to grin.

“You can borrow that, if you like,” Thorin said, before slipping out the door.


	17. Chapter 17

Bilbo’s fingers tapped incessantly at the arms of his wheelchair, and from beside him, Bofur rolled his eyes.

“Are you sure you want to do this, lad?”

Bilbo shot his friend an impatient look.

“ _Yes,_ Bofur. Very sure.”

Bofur continued to look so worried that Bilbo could not quite help but laugh.

“ _Honestly,_ ” he said, “You’d have thought that I was your first patient, leaving forever: I can’t do myself too much damage in the space of one day, can I? You’re like a mother.”

There was a snort of laughter from behind them both of them, and they both twisted to catch sight of Beorn, standing tall and intimidating, his arms folded across his broad barrel of a chest.

“Little bunny didn’t eat all his breakfast,” he responded when Bofur gave him a questioning look. “And he has a long day ahead of him.”

He glared down at Bilbo, who did look a little sheepish, and dropped a tinfoil package in his lap before stomping away.

“Oh dear,” Bofur said, running the length of his slightly droopy moustache between two fingers, and Bilbo laughed, unwrapping one corner of the package to reveal a pair of honey sandwiches, clearly hastily made and wrapped in the nurse’s kitchen.

“I was too excited to eat,” he confided in Bofur. “I know that sounds ridiculous, I’m a fully grown adult and everything, but I was. I’ve missed going out, and doing _normal_ things. Does that sound daft?”

Bofur shook his head, and cuffed the back of Bilbo’s head gently.

“Nothin’ wrong with being excited about things, y’know. Keeps us young, or that’s what my cousin says. And he gets excited by a lot of things.”

Bilbo smiled warmly, but his attention was distracted by the sight of Thorin striding through the hospital doorways, plaid shirt rolled up to his elbows, sunglasses pushed up over his hair. He started as he caught sight of Bilbo and Bofur, waiting for him, and a flicker of something cut across his countenance, something that might have been irritation, though it disappeared behind a carefully neutral expression.

“Hello,” he offered to Bilbo, nodding at Bofur, who grinned.

“Well, I’ll take my leave. This is my number,” he said, offering a card to Thorin, who took it, almost cautiously. “Call me if anything happens. Anything at all,” he continued, his tone almost warning for just a moment before a bright smile returned to his face. “Have fun!”

And with that he was off, padding off towards the lifts, leaving the two of them together.

“Want me to take those?” Thorin asked, after a pause, gesturing at the crutches slung across Bilbo’s lap.

“Mmhmm,” Bilbo nodded, smiling gently up at him, “let’s go.”

Bilbo felt a strange knot of excitement build in his chest as they made their way through the door, a sense of freedom settling across his shoulders, for all that he knew he had to return by the end of the day.  But for now, for today, he did not have to wheel himself around hospital corridors, hobble along the garden pathways: today, he got to escape.

Thorin offered him a small smile as they made their way across the car park, as if he could feel Bilbo’s excitement from where he walked, just a few steps away.

The heat was sudden compared to the carefully conditioned hospital, heavy about him but not quite unpleasantly so, and Bilbo couldn’t stop himself grinning up at the blue sky as he wheeled himself after Thorin.

There was a moment of awkwardness as they reached the car, as Bilbo lifted himself from the wheelchair, holding on carefully to the passenger door; both of them reached for the wheelchair, grabbing hold of it at almost the exact same time.

“Ah,” said Thorin, and Bilbo cut him off before he could continue.

“No,” Bilbo said, “you’re right, it makes more sense if you do it.”

Thorin exhaled, but nodded, and folded up the chair, placing it in the boot along with the crutches as Bilbo did his best to get in the car, having to help his legs along a bit but managing it without embarrassing himself too much. Thorin shot him a careful look as he slid into the driver’s seat a moment later.

“Sorry,” he offered, a little gruff, and Bilbo just smiled, shaking his head.

They sat, for a long awkward moment, until Thorin cleared his throat.

“Where are we going?”

 

\--

 

Talking to Gandalf – who, Bilbo had explained to Thorin, wasn’t actually his lawyer, but was an old family friend, dealing with some legal issues he was having – didn’t take too long, and Thorin had waited in the car, watching Bilbo hobble into his offices on his crutches carefully, having to physically stop himself from following, and making sure the other man was alright.

But clearly he had managed well enough, because he had come back to the car a while later without looking worse for wear, sliding back in after throwing his crutches unceremoniously on the back seat.

“Do you mind if we stop by my… my house, next?” he asked, and there was a shadow of something sad in his eyes as he spoke that Thorin could not quite place.

Thorin nodded, and let Bilbo direct him.

“This is the place?” he asked, as they pulled up outside a spacious detached house in the city suburbs. It actually wasn’t too far from Thorin’s own place, less than half an hour in the car, though he had never been here before; the streets were quiet and leafy, lined with graceful sycamores, and though the houses were Victorian and had tall, arching windows, they were surprisingly short, one or two stories at the most, with rooms that extended out in sprawling, illogical layouts around well-tended gardens, full of flowers spilling over their beds in riots of colour.

Bilbo nodded.

“It was my dad’s place,” he said, quietly. "I inherited it when he passed away."

Thorin frowned a little when he caught sight of a rather large range rover parked in the drive - not the kind of car that Thorin would have ever thought to see Bilbo in.

“Do you live with other people?”

Bilbo shook his head, casting him a quick and uncertain look out of the corner of his eye.

“No, that’s just my cousin, and her wife. They've been staying here... you know, while I was ill.”

Thorin nodded, but there was something about Bilbo’s expression that made him think there was something more to the story than he was letting on. Bilbo made no move to get out of the car, and Thorin killed the engine, shifting a little awkwardly in his seat.

“Want me to come in with you?”

Bilbo started, surprised.

“Ah, no, don’t worry, you don’t have to-”

“I don’t mind,” Thorin cut across, staring out at the road ahead of them. Beside him, Bilbo nodded, huffing a quiet little laugh.

“Alright then,” he said. “One of their cars isn’t there, anyway. They might not be in.”

Thorin inclined his head in acknowledgement, and got out, letting Bilbo reach into the back and pull through his crutches, using them to lever himself out of the car. He was already much better at doing so than he had been the first time, quickly getting used to the awkward action. He set off up the front path without saying anything to Thorin, letting him stride after Bilbo, keeping his distance.

The front door was bright green, with round porthole windows on both sides, and Thorin could already see large vases of dried flowers sat on both windowsills, bright and delicate. 

Bilbo let out a sigh as he unlocked and opened the door.

“Home,” he murmured, more to himself than to Thorin.

There was a sudden flurry of footsteps in the house, and in front of them a small boy suddenly appeared, not much older than Fili, his chestnut curls a messy mop on his head; he darted quickly from one room to the hallway in bare feet, staring up at Thorin in shock. His mouth opened, lower lip beginning to wobble, but Bilbo cut in quickly.

“Hullo, Lotho. Do you remember me?”

Lotho’s attention was caught by the other, and he nodded, a little hesitantly.

“Uhuh. Uncle Bilbo?”

Bilbo nodded, smiling.

“Where are your parents, Lotho?”

The boy was pulling on his lower lip, shuffling his feet.

“Dad’s gone out, Mama is in the garden sunbathing.”

Bilbo nodded, giving him another reassuring smile.

“I’m just here to pick up a few bits, okay?”

Lotho nodded, following Bilbo down the hallway.

“Are you still in the hospital, Uncle Bilbo?”

Thorin followed, a little uncertain what he was supposed to be doing, watching as Bilbo nodded again.

“Uhuh, but not for too much longer, kiddo.”

They reached a shut doorway, and from his pocket Bilbo drew out a set of keys, using one to unlock it. Lotho’s eyes were wide and surprised.

“Mama’s been trying to get into that room for ages!”

Bilbo smiled, a little sadly.

“I’m sure she has, Lotho. But you see, you need the key.”

Thorin leant against the doorway, watching as Bilbo hobbled in to what was a large and spacious study, a wide, double-glazed window leaving it bright, though a little dusty. Three walls were taken up with huge, over-stuffed bookshelves, and large desk sat under the windowsill. From the corner, Bilbo hooked a backpack, pulling open a couple of drawers from the desk and stuffing the contents unceremoniously inside.

Thorin didn’t ask what they were, but there was a certain uncomfortable tension across Bilbo’s shoulders that only added to his feeling that something wasn’t quite right.

Bilbo grabbed a small box from one shelf, and shoved it in afterwards, along with an mp3 player and a laptop charger, the computer itself going awkwardly under one arm.

“What are you doing, Uncle Bilbo?” Lotho asked, standing just in front of Thorin, obviously just as confused as he was.

Bilbo smiled at him, trying for comforting.

“Why don’t you go tell your Mama that I’m here, hmm?”

Lotho nodded, hesitantly, and darted off. Bilbo followed him, Thorin moving back into the hallway to make room for him. He held out his hands for the laptop and the bag, and with a relieved smile Bilbo passed them over – it had been clearly awkwardly for him to carry them and use his crutches at the same time.

He locked the door quite firmly, and the key was safely back in his pocket by the time a rather pretty but slightly too-heavily made up woman found them, her pleasant features marred by the deep frown of her scowl.

“Oh, Bilbo,” she said, her voice aiming for genuinely pleased, but falling way short of the mark. “What on earth are you doing here? We hadn’t heard you were discharged.”

“I’m not,” he said, making his way back to the door. Thorin, not entirely sure what he should have been doing, just followed him. “But I will be soon, Lobelia. You’ll hear from me then.”

Lobelia nodded, a little stiffly, eyes darting to the door of the study.

“Still not found the spare key, have you?” Bilbo said, with a small smile. “I see. Well, it was _lovely_ to see you. I am afraid we can’t stop for that tea you offered. Lots to do, lawyers to see, you know the drill.”

He bent, a little awkwardly, to ruffle Lotho’s hair. The boy beamed up at him, clearly too young to have yet inherited any parental unpleasantness.

“You be good, okay?”

“Mmmkay,” the boy said, and Bilbo chucked his cheek before reaching for the front door.

He made it all the way back to Thorin’s car before his careful expression broke, his brow crumpling into a frown, and Thorin quickly took the crutches from his unresisting hands and slid them in the back, alongside the laptop and bag.

“Where to next?” he asked, as he got in beside Bilbo, whose mouth twisted a little.

“Oh,” said Bilbo, “Um. There aren’t actually any other lawyers to see, you know. I just said that to annoy her a little. I don’t have anything else I need to do today…”

Thorin nodded, starting the car.

“Want to go get something to eat?”

Bilbo smiled, gratefully, his hands twisting in his lap.

“I’d like that,” he replied, not looking up, either at Thorin beside him or at the face at the window of his home, peering out at them.

“She seemed… unpleasant,” Thorin commented as they pulled away from the kerb. “Why did she want to get into your study so badly?”

Bilbo shrugged.

“My papers are all in there. The first editions of my books. My mother’s old jewellery box. I keep the important things in there, it is the only room in the house with a lock.”

Thorin’s hands tightened on the steering wheel.

“Is it safe, then, to leave her in there with a spare key?”

Bilbo grinned, suddenly and brightly.

“Oh, there’s no key. My friend Hamfast, who found me? He collected both mine and the spare and left them with me in the hospital when I was first admitted. I just told her that because I knew it would drive her crazy trying to find it.”

Thorin blinked across at him, a grin slowly growing across his face.

“That,” he told Bilbo, “is practically evil. Well played.”

Bilbo smiled back, and though his eyes turned back to his hands in his lap, he seemed cheered a little. After a while Thorin switched on the CD player, and Bilbo hummed quietly along to the music, staring at the window.

By his side Thorin drove the car out of the city limits, the sun still bright above them.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This day out was meant to last one damn chapter. Now it has extended to three. Sorry?
> 
> This one goes out to achildofyavanna for making me smile when I'm feeling blue. ♥
> 
> http://northerntrash.tumblr.com/

Bilbo thought he might have drifted off, or else perhaps had just become so long in the wandering thoughts of his own mind that he had lost track of time, because it seemed as if only a few minutes had passed when the car pulled to a stop, but when he looked at the clock he realised that it was actually closer to an hour; he smiled sheepishly across at Thorin, almost apologising for being such awful company, but there was a peaceful line to the man’s shoulders, a relaxed distance to his face, that suggested that he hadn’t minded the quiet in the slightest.

It was strange, that. He had spent so many years living alone, perfectly content in his own solitude, assuming that if anyone had ever encroached on that it would feel awkward, as if he were in too-tight shirt, uncomfortable and restricted. He liked silence, he liked peace; he was happy with the inside of his own mind.

He had never considered the fact that other people might be like that, too; that rather than cramming themselves into the confines of Bilbo’s life they might instead simply slot their own life next to his, resting together.

He hadn’t wanted to share his life with anyone that made him feel trapped. He just hadn’t realised that by trying to avoid _that,_ he’d avoided all the other things as well: the company, the sweetness, the gentle way that two people somehow manage to find one another, and the inexplicable _warmth_ that those sorts of meetings can bring.

“Where are we?” he asked, watching the curve of Thorin’s jaw as he opened his mouth to speak.

“I thought you might like to get out of the city, for a bit.” Thorin opened his car door, sliding out without explaining anything more, and Bilbo shook his head, smiling a little, before following suit.

Thorin made him realise that though he was perfectly happy being alone, he had also been _lonely,_ and though the two might have seemed similar, there was really a marked difference.

The air outside the car smelt briny, the air fresh even in the bright sunshine, and Bilbo felt himself smiling as he realised that they were by the sea; the sharp caw of gulls wheeling about overhead cut through the pleasant breeze, and he took deep, long breaths as he followed Thorin out of the car park, down the street, and to the front.

And there, stretched out in front of them, there was the sea, a deep and brilliant grey-blue-green, the white cavalries of curling waves racing up the beach.

Bilbo closed his eyes for a moment to the sound of the waves.

He missed the way Thorin watched his face, his own expression devastatingly open, before looking away as Bilbo opened his eyes again.

“You want to walk along the beach?”

Thorin eyed Bilbo’s crutches, clearly having some misgivings, but nodded anyway.

They made it down the shallow steps to the sand, dry and shifting under the sunshine; high tide had obviously been some hours ago, and though the sea was creeping back up the beach slowly, the sand had clearly had plenty of time to dry out. Bilbo’s crutches sank deep, unsteady under his weight, and Thorin carefully adjusted their path so they ended up closer to the sea, on the firmer, damper sand; he did not say anything, and though Bilbo was convinced it had been a deliberate move, he could not bring himself to be irritated by it.

“It’s beautiful,” Bilbo said, after a little while, and Thorin nodded.

“I bring Fili here, when the weather is nice. He likes to try and catch crabs in the rock pools at the other end of the beach.”

He pointed off into the distance, where a the sand gave way to dark brown-and-grey rocks, slick with seaweed, small pools of light dancing in the sunlight.

“I should do things like this more often,” Bilbo admitted. “Leave the house, see new things. I end up spending most of my weekends sat in my garden, reading.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” Thorin replied, and Bilbo hummed in agreement.

“No, but it wouldn’t hurt to have an adventure once in a while.”

They reached the sea, having been following the beach along in a downwards contour, and Bilbo carefully lowered himself to the sand, quickly pulling up his trousers to over his knees so that he could kneel on the damp sand, not seeming to notice how moisture was soaking into his shoes. Thorin watched, a little entranced, as Bilbo reached out with both hands to cup the water, dappled green-and-yellow in the sunlight this shallow.

The water ran through his fingers, and they stayed like that for a long moment, as Bilbo traced patterns in the sand, watching as the next wave washed them slowly away. There was a sweetness to his movement, an almost childlike innocence, and Thorin found himself staring as the sunlight reflected back from the water, casting a bright and flickering glow across his face.

But after a while, Bilbo shook himself out of the trance of the sea and the sand, and made to get up again, only just realising that to do so was near impossible; at this angle, and with the sand so slippery and prone to sinking, he could not get the grip he needed to bring himself up to his feet. He struggled on for a few moments before giving in, sinking back on his haunches, and rubbing the back of his head a little awkwardly.

“Thorin? Could I… could I have a hand?”

It felt distinctly uncomfortable, having to ask for help standing up, but there really was no other way of going about it; his legs were not strong enough to lift him by themselves still, and his crutches were useless against the sand.

Thorin was there in an instant, as if he had been holding himself back from leaping forward, sinking to his knees in the damp sand, clearly not caring about his jeans. He looked at Bilbo carefully, as if silently asking permission, and Bilbo nodded.

“Just… I just need to get to my feet again.”

One strong, impossibly warm arm went around Bilbo’s back, curling around his hip; the other was at his waist, steadying him, though the press of Thorin’s front against his side would have been enough. Bilbo still had one crutch in hand, but the hand on the side that Thorin was pressed against rested empty, crutch abandoned on the sand.

Thorin helped him slowly to his feet, the line of Bilbo’s side pressed tight against his chest.

“Alright?” he asked, his voice suddenly low, once they were both on their feet.

Bilbo nodded, and Thorin let go, taking a step back, already starting to move as if to pick up the spare crutch, but at the sudden loss of his support Bilbo wavered, one leg tensing in a sharp cramp; he tried to use the one crutch to balance himself, but it was not quite enough, still unsteady in the sand. Instead, his hand landed against Thorin’s chest, fingers tightening slightly over shirt and skin, clinging for support.

Thorin simply moved closer, hands in fists at his side with the tension of _not touching,_ and waited until Bilbo was steady again.

“Better?” he said, and his voice was softer now, a little teasing. Bilbo shot him an unimpressed look.

“Much,” he said, only then realising that his hand was still pressed against Thorin’s chest. “Um.”

Thorin glanced down, at that hand, and then back up, the corner of his mouth curling slightly.

“Do you want me to get your crutch?”

Bilbo nodded. “If you don’t mind?”

Thorin reached for Bilbo’s hand then, fingers curling around the curve of his palm, and lifted it to rest on his shoulder. He bent down slowly to get the crutch this time, making sure that Bilbo remained steady, resting a little of his weight unobtrusively against his shoulder; Bilbo chewed on the inside of his mouth as Thorin stood back up.

“Thanks.”

It was almost a disappointment to let go, to take up the crutches again.

“You’re welcome.”

They continued down the beach, nearly empty but for a few lone dog-walkers and elderly couples, still quiet despite the good weather in the mid-week before the school holidays started, and Bilbo felt an uncomfortable knot in his chest, some unpleasantly worming fear.

“I’ll be discharged soon,” he said, carefully, watching the way that Thorin’s jaw tightened in some nameless emotion. “Well, soon enough, anyway, in the next couple of weeks.”

Thorin nodded, slowing a little as Bilbo navigated around a rather sizable driftwood obstacle.

“When I do… would you like to do something? Just, I mean, to see each other, if you would want to?”

Thorin glanced at him, his expression almost surprised, but then he was smiling, just a little.

“I promised I’d take you out for some decent food, didn’t I?”

Bilbo grinned, ducking his head, and there was a brief and faint pressure against his arm for a moment, as if Thorin had rested his hand there.

“We’ll still see each other,” he continued after a moment, his voice low and quiet, “You have my word.”

There was a strange and sudden solemnity to his tone, as if he were promising something far more important than simply seeing each other again, and it struck a chord in his chest, somehow sweet and bitter and beautiful all at the same time.

 _I think I might be falling in love with you,_ Bilbo almost said. _I think I might have been for quite a while, now._

He didn’t, though; those words he kept to himself, though he offered Thorin a smile, the warm and heart-felt kind of smile that he wasn’t sure anyone had drawn out of him in many years, making him feel young and daft and full of hope again. Thorin’s eyes were warm, his pace easy, by his side.

They gave up on the beach after a while, and made their way instead to a small cafe on the front; they had tea in great big mugs sat out on the tables over-looking the sea as the sun sank lower in the sky, the afternoon slowly wearing on; Bilbo laughed as Thorin mixed in two sugars and a generous helping of milk in with his, whilst he just drank his own black, with nothing added in. Thorin grumbled a little at Bilbo’s teasing, but when the smaller man’s knee pressed against the line of his leg under the table, he just pressed gently back, without moving away.

The breeze grew a little chill after a while, and Thorin got up from the table, bidding Bilbo to stay; he must have seen that Bilbo was shivering a little, having grown too used to the constant ambience of the inside of the hospital, because he came back with a jumper, obviously retrieved from the car, and passed it over to Bilbo without a word.

It was a little faded, and soft, and when Bilbo tugged it over his head he realised that it was far too big for him, but comfortable and comfort _ing_ regardless.

Thorin had smiled at him when he’d rolled the sleeves up over his elbows, the fabric sagging a little against the still-slender lines of his forearms; and wasn’t that smile an achievement of its own?

“Do you need to get back at any time?” Thorin had asked, and Bilbo shook his head.

He didn’t want to go back at all.

Back was nurses and head scans and the worry of what was happening with his house; back was paperwork for Gandalf and physical therapy and the despised wheelchair; back was a clinical room that didn’t feel like home and waking up to the gentle beeping of machines, the hum of the hallway lights.

Back was long days without anything to do, long days without seeing Thorin.

He wanted to stay, in this day, with the warm pressure of Thorin’s leg against his own, eyes stinging in the bright sunlight and the brine in the air; hot bitter tea and Thorin’s smile and rub of the sand still caught between his fingers.

“Not any time soon,” he answered, smiling.

They remained at that table for the rest of the afternoon, eating enormous portions of fish and chips that came wrapped in paper, grease slowly seeping through and smearing on their hands as they unwrapped them; it was hot and unnecessary and Bilbo was quite sure he’d never eaten anything better, not by a long shot. He licked the grease from his fingers like a child, smiling all the time.

They made their way back to the car when the sky started to turn orange and pink, knowing that in the summer months if they waited for the sunset they wouldn’t get back to the hospital until after midnight, though Bilbo did make a small noise of protest when Thorin had pointed that out. It would almost have been worth incurring the wrath of his nurses to stay out and watch it. Bilbo ran his hands through his wind-swept hair ruefully as they got back in the car.

“At least it is long enough to get messy now, I suppose,” he said, a little offhand, still a little bitter that his hair had been cut so short whilst in his coma.

Thorin huffed a quiet laugh as he had started the engine.

“I wondered, the first time I saw you, if it would grow out into curls,” he admitted, and Bilbo stared at him, a slow blush starting around his ears.

“Oh?” he managed after a moment, and Thorin nodded.

“That’s… kind of weird,” he continued when it became clear that Thorin was not going to say anything else.

“Just saying,” he added when Thorin sent him an unimpressed look, trying to stop himself from smiling but not quite managing.  “I just, you know, forget the whole coma-mystery-creep sometimes. You seem so _normal_ when you’re not watching me sleep.”

“Shut it, you,” Thorin growled as they pulled away from the small town. “Or you can walk back.”

Bilbo laughter was bright and sudden, and he settled back into the car seat as Thorin glanced at him, eyes warm and fond.

“Infuriating,” he muttered, his tone light.

Bilbo’s hand rested on his, on top of the gear-stick, for just a moment.

“Ridiculous,” Bilbo replied, as Thorin smiled at the road ahead.


	19. Chapter 19

The sun set quite suddenly, sending the day from the grey-gold evening light to the pitch of night with little warning; it seemed to Bilbo that he had simply blinked, and the light had gone, but he had come to appreciate the oddities of the passage of time since he had woken from his six-month sleep, and so did not think too long on it.

Thorin drove with a steady insistence through the darkening evening, along the dimly lit country roads that wound their way back to the city; for quite some distance the only light was the illumination of the dashboard of the car and the line of light still visible on the horizon, and Bilbo found himself glancing over at Thorin several times, at the way that strange combination of lights shadowed the planes of his face, throwing the sharp line of his nose and the hard line of his jaw into a softness, dark shadows making his cheekbones hollow, the hollows under his eyes intense.

The darkness should have made him intimidating, the planes of light-and-dark across his face should have looked harsh and stern, but it didn’t.

It didn’t at all.

Thorin caught him staring, and just rolled his eyes, staring out at the road in front of them. The dark hid the faint blush on his cheeks, but the light from the dials on the dash was angled just so, so they lit the deepening red crescent of his ear for Bilbo to see.

He found it oddly sweet that Thorin’s ears when red when he blushed, but he hid the smile that the sight drew behind his hand.

“My cousin, and his wife and son – they’re not supposed to be in my house.”

Thorin’s teeth clicked together audibly in his mouth, and Bilbo blinked. He hadn’t really meant to say that, was not entirely sure where it had come from or what worm of a thought had even brought it to the fore of his mind at that moment,

“Oh?”

Bilbo looked down at his lap.

“Well, they moved in when I was in my coma – I don’t think they thought that I would wake up, y’know, and so they decided to jump the gun a bit. When my father died I was sixteen, and he left the house and his money to me in trust: my mother was in charge of it, or if she wasn’t around anymore, it would be my cousin Otho. He’s twelve years older than me and we used to get on quite well, before he married.”

Thorin reached to turn down the music, just a little.

“So if anything happened to me, or for whatever reason I couldn’t look after the house, he’d step in. Anyway, my mother never thought to change the will once I did turn eighteen – she was a little scatterbrained, you know – and it doesn’t explicitly say that Otho no longer has a role in the house now I am legally an adult.”

“Surely that wouldn’t matter?”

Bilbo nodded.

“It shouldn’t, but you know how legal stuff it, if it isn’t explicit it will involve an argument. And when I was comatose, I didn’t have legal competency, it went to my first of kin – which is him. My friend thinks that we’ll be able to get a court order demanding they leave pretty easily, but these things take time, you know – but I’m thirty one, they can hardly deny that I’m legally competent.”

He started to frown, a ready tension leaping to his tone.

“But in the meantime, there are strangers in my house who won’t leave, using my stuff and selling my mother’s furniture and cooking in my father’s kitchen.”

He exhaled, trying to calm himself, watching Thorin out of the corner of one eye. Thorin nodded, a sudden twitch tensing in his jaw, and Bilbo had to resist the urge to reach out and smooth it away with his fingertips. The anger swept out of him, pushed aside as suddenly as it had arrived with a sudden affection.

“Stop your worrying,” he said, softly, and tugged at his ear lobe to give his hands something to do before they gave in completely and went to touch Thorin’s face anyway. “I’ve got it under control.”

Thorin didn’t answer, and they sat for some time as Bilbo watched his knuckles turn white, tightening their grip around the steering wheel.

Bilbo sighed, and reached out, placing one hand over Thorin’s, over those knuckles.

“It’s alright, daft man,” he said, voice light. “I’m on top of it, I’ll figure it out. I just thought you deserved you know, that’s all.”

Thorin nodded, and Bilbo continued to watch him for quite some time as they sat in silence, until the CD came to an end and Thorin suddenly bit his lower lip, so hard that it must have hurt quite a bit.

“You know,” said Thorin, without warning, but then he seemed to trail off again, as if unsure of himself. He shook his head.

“I know you don’t want people to help you. I get that you don’t want to feel like an invalid, and I’ll respect that, as much as I can. I’m _trying_ to respect that. But you also have to learn to acknowledge that sometimes you do need help, like you did at the beach. And if I’ve got to learn not to reach out when you don’t need help, then you’ve got to learn to lean on me when you do, alright?”

It was quite possibly the most he had ever heard Thorin say in one turn, and it took him a little by surprise. Bilbo looked at him, head on one side, as Thorin finished.

“Were you telling me for your sake, or for mine?”

Bilbo swallowed. In truth he had thought that it was for Thorin, that he was admitting what was going on, so that he would know what was happening – if Bilbo was going to snap at him when bad things happened then the least he deserved was to know why.

“I think it was meant to be for you… but you know, it does make me feel a little better, too.”

Thorin looked at him out of the corner of his eye, one eyebrow raised, and Bilbo nodded.

“Alright,” he said. “I’ll _try_.”

Thorin smiled at him, turned that small but painfully and brilliantly genuine smile on him, and Bilbo sagged back against the seat.

“Thank you.”

Bilbo wondered if it would be entirely inappropriate to reach across and hold Thorin’s hand.

“You’re welcome.”

He was just contemplating doing so anyway, but his thoughts were interrupted by a sharp ringing, and both of them started at it; Bilbo winced, shooting Thorin an apologetic look, reaching into his pocket to silence his alarm.

“It’s my medication reminder,” he said, a little awkwardly. “Sorry.”

Thorin shook his head, but when Bilbo made no move to do anything he reached into the driver’s side doorway, pulling out a half-full bottle of water and passing it over silently.

Bilbo bit his lip.

“I can wait to take them. They make me a little drowsy, I don’t want to fall asleep before I get back to the hospital.”

Thorin rolled his eyes at him.

“What, and let your nurses kill me? It doesn’t matter if you doze off, I’ll wake you when we get there if you do.”

Bilbo sent him a soft smile of thanks, reaching for the sealed foil packet of his pills, ripping it open and swallowing them quickly; it was nothing compared to the cocktail of medications he’d had to take when he’d first woken, but still he couldn’t wait for the day when he didn’t have to take _any_.

He noticed how Thorin, unlike anyone else, did not ask what pills he was still taking, didn’t offer any encouraging words about how soon he would be right as rain; though he eyed the package with curiosity when he thought Bilbo was not looking, he did not pry, and Bilbo felt that same deep ache of affection again, for that modicum of his privacy remaining preserved.

“Thanks,” Bilbo said, and Thorin glanced at him, mouth tilting up in a small smile. He settled himself a little more comfortably in the driver’s seat, rolling his shoulders.

“Don’t mention it.”

Thorin switched the CD in the player to another one handed, changing it for something low and expansive, the music swelling through the dark and the quiet, settling around Bilbo like a blanket, wrapping comfortably around his shoulders. He slowly pushed down the sleeves of Thorin’s jumper, until he could wrap his hands in the cuffs of it, covering all but the ends of his fingers.

“I’ll give this back to you, when we get back to the hospital,” Bilbo said, quietly, but Thorin just shrugged.

“Save it for next time,” he said, his voice a little distant, and Bilbo smiled at the unspoken implication.

Thorin’s elbow went to the arm rest between the two seats, his hand hanging limply from it, and after a long moment of consideration Bilbo own hand stole over to it, half-hidden in the low light, his fingers tentatively reaching to touch Thorin’s, slow and unsure.

At that touch, Thorin’s hand took a hold of his, linking their fingers, holding on quite firmly.

Bilbo smiled at the road ahead.

Soon enough their road grew into a wider one, and the night grew darker; Bilbo found his eyes following the steady flicker-glow of the ambler streetlights overhead as they rushed past them, feeling quite at peace with himself for the first time in quite a while. He felt contained, but not trapped; the car and the darkness and the music and the lights, they were an embrace, holding him close, cradling him gently.

Thorin began to hum, low and slow, along to the music, occasionally joining in with the odd couple of verses or lines, voice quiet.

“Still singing to your nephews?” Bilbo asked, leaning his head against the side of the car, and Thorin quirked a grin.

“Works like a charm.”

“Told you it would.”

“Know-it-all.”

“Mean.”

Thorin rolled his eyes, glancing over, eyebrows raising slightly.

“There is a cushion in the back somewhere,” he said, voice neutral, but Bilbo shook his head.

“I’m fi-” he cut himself off yawning, his jaw clicking as it extended. “M’sorry, I’m fine.”

Thorin’s eyes returned to the road, and the humming resumed; soon Bilbo’s eyes began to droop, and he let the low ache of wakefulness ease, and fell into a doze. Occasionally Thorin would let go of his hand, to indicate or to change gear or just to push his hair back from his face, but he would always return it to Bilbo’s when he was done.

It didn’t take Thorin too long to notice that Bilbo had nodded off, and when he did he turned down the music, though he continued humming as they approached the city, eyes on the road but mind wandering, to distant memories and half-forgotten dreams, of drives like this one when he was just a child, tired and happy and making his way steadily home in the dark.

It was some time later that Bilbo came to, his shoulder gently shaken by Thorin and the cool night air startling him a little closer to wakefulness, though sleep still kept its weights bearing down on his eyes. Thorin had opened his car door, had already got the wheelchair out of the boot and was standing back, watchful and waiting.

Bilbo smiled sleepily at him, and manoeuvred himself in, getting away with only banging one ankle against a foot support.

“Would you give me a hand, pushing?” he asked, a little sleepily, and Thorin nodded.

Bilbo winced against the bright lights of the hospital foyer, closing his eyes, his head lolling back against the back of the wheelchair; he was half-asleep again in moments, his head falling slightly to one side and resting against Thorin’s hand, curved around the handles.

Thorin might have been more concerned at this exhaustion, but he had seen Bilbo’s doziness after his medication enough times previously to know that this was a normal, albeit occasionally awkward, side-effect; he just continued to roll Bilbo in the direction of the ward, not bothering to move away from the press of Bilbo’s forehead against the back of his hand.

Bilbo’s room was in darkness when they reached it, and Thorin didn’t bother to switch on the light; leaving the door open he moved the wheelchair to next to the lowered bed, gave Bilbo another gentle shake, smiling a small smile as the smaller man sat up, blinking a little blearily.

“Are you going?” Bilbo asked, his words a little unsure in his exhaustion, mumbled quietly in the dark room, lit only by the glow of the corridor lights. He heaved himself up onto his bed a little awkwardly, Thorin stepping in to shift the wheelchair out of his way.

“It’s late,” Thorin answered, his voice quiet though he could have said why it was so; Bilbo nodded as he kicked off his shoes, before sliding under his sheets, still fully dressed.

“Okay,” came the quiet response, tired and a little slurred, and he turned his face into the pillow. “Thanks, f’today.”

Thorin nodded, though Bilbo could not see it.

He stood there for some time, watching the slow rise and fall of Bilbo’s chest and frowning to himself, until he was quite sure that Bilbo was asleep.

He shut the door quietly behind him, and closed his eyes for a moment, before leaving.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wild Dwalin appeared.

“I still can’t believe that Vee got to meet your new man before I did,” Dis complained, propping herself up against the counter, Kili on one hip reaching with pudgy fingers for her hair. “And Frerin’s seen him too, why am I always the last to get to do the fun things?”

Fili wrapped his arms around her legs, grinning up at Dis.

“I’ve met him too!”

Dis groaned, and ruffled Fili’s hair with her spare hand.

“Don’t remind me, Fee.”

“He’s not my _new man,_ ” said Thorin, between gritted teeth. He was a little concerned that his pencil might snap in his hands - then again, he only had one brother and one sister, and he had a whole box of pencils, so they were probably more expendable. “He’s not _my_ anything.”

“Yeah,” replied Dis, “but you _want_ him to be, don’t you?”

Thorin couldn’t really argue with that, so he didn’t try.

“In fairness,” Frerin chipped in, before hopping up to sit on the counter besides his sister, pulling a face at Kili, who let out a shriek of laughter in return. “I didn’t _really_ meet him. He was asleep when I went in.”

Dis shook her head.

“Whilst that is true, you at least know what he looks like. I, in the meantime, remain completely in the dark about this man, and Thorin hasn’t even got a picture of him to show me.”

Thorin exhaled audibly, unimpressed.

“Why the hell would I have a picture of him?”

Frerin grinned, flicking a toothpick out of one pocket and sticking it between his teeth.

“You sent him a picture of you.”

Dwalin snorted a laugh, settling down on one of the chairs on the other side of the counter, slapping on knee with a hand.

“Why the hell did you send him a picture?”

Thorin pointedly ignored that.

“What the hell have you been doing on my phone?”

Thorin was doing his best to keep his embarrassment tempered, but he was pretty certain that he was failing. He rolled his pencil between his fingers in an attempt to hide the no doubt brilliant flush that was threatening to spill out over his face. Frerin, smug bastard that he was, was just grinning, looking particularly pleased with himself.

“Just checking the time. Not my fault if you leave your message thread open when you leave your phone lying around.”

Thorin growled something under his breath, but Dwalin was still laughing, Frerin still beaming; Dis and Vivi were looking markedly satisfied, and even Fili was grinning, although in fairness he probably didn’t realise that the grown up’s amusement was at his Uncle’s expense.

“That still doesn’t explain _why_ you were sending him a picture,” said Dwalin, clearly trying to suppress his laughter. Thorin huffed.

“He wanted to see Kili, it was a picture of him, I was just _holding_ him.”

Dwalin hummed, clearly disbelieving, and Dis shook her head, shooting him a rather unimpressed expression.

“Whatever you say, brother.”

“You know, I am work,” Thorin grumbled, trying a different tack. “I do have a living to make, a business to run, jewellery to design. Those things that earn me money, you know.”

Frerin rolled his eyes. “If you insist on working on a Saturday, then obviously we’re going to come and offer you some emotional support, big brother.”

Thorin didn’t believe that for a moment; his family took some strange sort of perverse pleasure in teasing him, he knew.

He snorted. “I own a shop, I can hardly shut up on a weekend.”

Frerin shrugged, and Vivi perched on the arm of Dwalin’s chair, tucking her feet up on the broad stretch of Dwalin’s thigh; Dwalin didn’t react other than to shift over slightly, freeing up a little space on the chairs back for her to lean again. The two of them had been close friends since the day they had met, much to the surprise of the rest of them; they had bonded over an unexpected shared love of tattoos, motorbikes and Renaissance art (it was a poorly kept secret that, in his late twenties, Dwalin had completed a part time degree in Art History).

“Yes, yes,” she said, her voice low and soothing as she pulled up a backpack and unzipped it, “and you do work very hard, so you can’t blame us for wanting to bring our favourite brother and cousin lunch.”

“I’m not your brother,” Thorin grumbled, but the corners of his mouth were twitching and his tone lacked any seriousness. Vivi threw him a tinfoil wrapped sandwich, and he managed to catch it before it hit him in the face; Vivi might as well have been his sister, and she well knew it.

“Quiet you,” she said, and Dwalin laughed, reaching over to Dis. She handed him Kili without having to ask what it was he was after, and he took hold of the baby with one hand wrapped around each side of his torso, tucked under his armpits. He stretched his arms out over his head, and Kili laughed as he looked down at the man, kicking his legs out into the air.

“Can I check my email?” Dis asked Thorin quietly, nudging him with her hip as she slipped around the counter. Thorin nodded, frowning down at the ring designs he was struggling with. The engagement ring he had been commissioned to make needed to be finished within the week, but no matter how hard he tried, he still couldn’t get it looking the way he wanted – he’d been at it for weeks now, and he still couldn’t get it right. Unnoticed beside him Dis booted up the shop’s laptop, frowning as she opened the internet.

“Thorin,” she asked, voice perplexed, “why on earth are you google-ing inheritance law?”

Luckily the rest of the group didn’t hear her question, too busy distracted by Fili, who was currently trying his hardest to climb up next to Frerin and was making a loud fuss about not being successful.

He shifted, awkwardly.

“No reason.”

“Like hell,” she said, head turning to one side. “What are you doing, writing a will?”

It would have been easier, Thorin knew, simply to lie – it wouldn’t have been that implausible to say that he was adjusting his will to include Kili, after all – but his sister had long ago perfected the ability to read his face like a book; she’d figure it out almost immediately.

“Just looking for a friend, he’s having some problems,” he said, keeping his eyes on the ring sketches.

“You mean your man in the hospital,” Dis said, pitching her voice low so that the others would not overhear. “Did he ask you for help?”

Thorin didn’t reply; he didn’t quite dare.

“Oh, Thorin,” she said, sighing. “ _Don’t._ If he didn’t ask for your help, don’t go barging in there and try and take over his life.”

“I wasn’t _going_ to,” Thorin grumbled, and Dis raised her eyebrows.

“Promise me.”

He rolled his eyes, but nodded all the same.

“I promise.”

She eyed him suspiciously, but Thorin _hadn’t_ been intending to step in in any way; Bilbo had made it quite clear that he didn’t want Thorin stepping in. But that didn’t mean that he couldn’t look into things to ease his own mind, to clear things up for himself, and just in case Bilbo ever did choose to ask for his help; there was no shame in simply being prepared.

Dis clearly didn’t believe him, and in all honestly he couldn’t blame her: he had been heavy handed with his help in the past, and would no doubt continue to be on occasion. But there was something about Bilbo that just made him want to _try_.

Vivi had her chin in her hand, elbow propped up on her leg.

“Look at that smile,” she said quietly to Dwalin, “Doesn’t he just look painfully smitten?”

Dwalin rolled his eyes.

“He’s an idiot.”

Dis poked Thorin in the side, and he swatted her away, ducking to replace a velvet tray of earrings back under the glass-topped counter, where it belonged.

“How was your day out, anyway?” Frerin called across the room. “Dwalin was moaning all day about having to watch the shop by himself.”

Thorin grunted.

“If Dwalin thought it was such a hardship, then he wouldn’t have kicked up such a fuss about getting last weekend off so he could take _his new girlfriend_ away on a trip, and I _do_ find it interesting that none of us are talking about _that_.”

Vivi waved him off.

“That’s because he actually told us about her, and brought her over, and doesn’t huff when we ask him. You act like a hibernating bear we’ve woken up.”

Thorin grumbled, but he couldn’t really protest.

“ _Anyway_ ,” Frerin continued. “Where did you end up taking him? The old manor? The moors?”

Thorin rolled his eyes. “I took him to beach, alright?”

Frerin crowed. “Did you hold his hand and walk along the sand?”

Thorin rolled his eyes, but something in his expression must have given him away.

“You _did,_ ” Frerin gloated. “Well done, big brother!”

“Did _not,_ he’s still on crutches for god’s sake.”

Vivi looked at Dwalin; Dwalin looked back.

 _Can you believe him?_ her eyes said.

 _He’s a complete idiot_ , his replied.

 _Very true,_ responded the curve of her smile, and Dwalin rolled his eyes.

“Why don’t you just bring him over?” Frerin asked, “Put everyone out of their misery. Even _Balin_ has started clucking about it now.”

Thorin exhaled audibly, irritated. “He’s got enough on his plate without me subjecting him to the lot of _you,_ ” he snapped back, tucking a pencil behind his ear haphazardly. He turned the full force of his glare on his motley collection of family, but they were well used to him, and paid no mind whatsoever; where as a stranger would wither under the scrutiny of his glare, his sibling, cousin and sister-in-law simply seemed more amused.

“Has he told you about the plant?” Frerin said to Dis, but Thorin cut him off immediately.

“ _Enough_! Just let it be, the lot of you.”

Their collective gaze made it very clear that they would not, and Dis’ grin suggested that she would find out about this plant at some point in time, but they did stop trying to pester him, and instead turned their attention elsewhere.

“What did _you_ think of him, lad?” Dwalin asked Fili, who was pouting up at Frerin now.

“He’s nice,” said Fili firmly, giving up on trying to reach for the counter and instead running over to wrap his arms around Thorin’s leg - Fili was astute despite his age, and knew full well that though his Uncle Frerin would tease him until his lower lip started to wobble, his Uncle Thorin would cave almost immediately to any request (in several years he would learn that when it came to homework and sports practises, it would be Frerin that would give in and Thorin that would glower until all was completed).

“I liked him,” he continued, reaching his arms upward. With a sigh Thorin bent to scoop him up, depositing him beside the cash register.  “He said he’d look after my flower,” he confided to his Uncle, quite happily.

Thorin rubbed at his own forehead.

“What flower, Fili?”

Fili beamed, a great, gap-toothed grin.

“I picked him a flower.”

He pushed the messy blonde hair back from his nephew’s face with the palm of his hand.

“That’s very nice of you.”

Flowers, Thorin thought. He hadn’t taken Bilbo flowers in a couple of weeks; the last bouquet had long died, and although he knew Bilbo would rather have the food, he made up his mind to bring more flowers along with the cheesecake slices he’d promised to sneak in (at this stage in Bilbo’s recovery, he wasn’t convinced that they still needed to sneak food in, but he wasn’t going to risk it).

He looked down at the ring designs, and shook his head.

He sketched it out quickly again, ignoring the geometric patterns he usually favoured, his pencil quickly sketching out leaves and petals, the curling lines of stems and vines.

Dwalin hefted himself to his feet, Kili still in the crook of one arm, and came over, glancing over Thorin’s shoulder.

He eyed Thorin, before huffing a quiet laugh and shaking his head.

 _Flowers,_ he thought. _Since when had Thorin thought so damn much about flowers?_

He caught Vivi’s eye, and she pulled a face.

 _Sap,_ she seemed to say, _utterly smitten._


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's that, three chapters in one day? Sorry, I can't hear you over the sound of my youth slipping away on a wave of Bagginshield. 
> 
> shamingcows -- we've finally reached this stage, after so long. I'm getting all emotional (also, I really hope you're doing okay - I'll come bother you in the morning to make sure) ♥
> 
> Pom -- glasses of water at midnight. Keep thinking about it.

“You know,” said Bofur, as Bilbo stood unaided between the two steel rods of the support bars. “I think you’re about ready for me to take those crutches back from you.”

Bilbo grinned, and it was a wide and happy smile. “Fantastic, although I regret not being able to throw them on a bonfire. I think that would have been very satisfying, you know?”

Bofur laughed.

“I’m sure it would have been, my lad, but unfortunately they are hospital property, and some other soul has to use them after you.”

Bilbo pulled a face. “Yeah, yeah.”

He flapped at Bofur, still smiling, but the motion made him rock slightly, and he had to catch hold of the rail once more with one hand to keep himself steady. It took him a moment to right himself properly, and he had to shift his feet a little, to level his balance.

He smiled sheepishly at Bofur, who just rolled his eyes.

“Doesn’t do to get overconfident, does it? Now, I’m not saying that you are fully functioning again, mate, so don’t go trying to run any marathons.”

Bilbo nodded, pulling a face.

“Don’t think you have any fear of that, Bofur.”

His physical therapist offered him a warm, wide grin.

“You’ll still need to make sure you get plenty of rest, and that you don’t overly exert yourself – don’t hurt yourself. I’d recommend getting a cane to help you-”

“A _cane?_ ” said Bilbo, disbelievingly. “Bloody hell. Are you sure?”

Bofur nodded.

“It won’t be forever, but it will help you when your legs start to get sore – and it is that or a zimmer frame.”

Bilbo laughed. “Alright, alright, if you insist.”

“And once you get discharged I’ll still want you back in twice a week for our physical therapy sessions, alright?”

Bilbo nodded.

“Of course. C’mon Bofur, as if I’d just leave you. Think how much you’ll miss me when I’m gone.”

Bofur continued to list things off, checking them off on his fingers.

“Baths with help with muscle tensions, and I’ll prescribe you some pain relief, though you should only take them when things get bad, not regularly. And despite what I said, we will be sending you home with the crutches - that was just a joke: don’t shy away from using them, instead of the walking stick, if you’re having a bad day – and you _will_ have bad days. I can’t promise you that you won’t.”

Bilbo nodded, chewing on his lip.

“C’mon Bofur, I’ve not even been discharged yet, calm down. You’ll have a while yet to look after me, don’t worry.”

Bofur grinned, shrugged.

“We’ll see, lad. And by the way – I will miss you, when you’ve gone. I’ve got quite used to having you around.”

It was quite unlike him, but as he made his way out of the space between the supports he slung an arm around Bofur’s shoulder, hugging him quickly.

“Thanks,” he muttered against the starched cotton of his uniform. “I do appreciate it.”

“Hey,” Bofur answered, hugging him back. “You’re more than welcome. And hey, when you’re all better, you can buy me a pint, alright?”

Bilbo laughed, pulled back.

“Deal.”

Bilbo’s session done for the day, he walked back to his room on the crutches, smiling and offering greetings to the nurses and doctors that he passed along the way - Thorin had once idly joked that it had seemed like he’d befriended the entire staff and half the patients in the hospital since he had woken up.

Gandalf was perched on his bed by the time he returned to his room – the room that would hopefully _not_ be his for too much longer. The old man had a pair of half-moon spectacles perched on the end of his rather long nose, and was idly flicking through a rather thick pile of papers, stuck throughout with different coloured post-it notes. Bilbo eyed the pile suspiciously as he entered the room, not liking the look of it at all.

“What do you want?” he said, his tone grumpy but his smile belaying the fact that he wasn’t actually annoyed.

Gandalf snot him a small, knowing smile in return.

“Everything is in motion, my dear boy,” he said, “We’re getting there, slowly but surely.”

Bilbo nodded, sitting down on the bed.

“Very good,” he said, “what’s the plan, then?”

Gandalf shrugged.

“Once the lawyer has made sure that everything is in order, we’ll be able to proceed; first he’ll have to get notice from your doctors that your legal competency can be re-declared, then they’ll be able to issue a notice to your cousin than he has to leave. It’ll speed things up that we don’t have to prove his intent – they’ve already moved in, after all.”

Bilbo propped his crutches up against the bedside table, shooting a small smile at the bunch of chrysanthemums that had appeared at Thorin’s last visit, just three days before, along with much wanted cheesecake.

“Excellent,” he said, and he shot Gandalf a grateful smile. “I really do appreciate that you are doing this for me, you know. If it wasn’t for you I think I would have just given up, and not tried to get Bag End back at all.”

Gandalf smiled at him, a genuine and fond expression.

“You’re more than welcome, my lad,” he said, laying out the papers on the table. He spread his hands across them, running his fingertips gently across the lines of text.

His voice, when he spoke again, was soft, and almost sad.

“I feel a little bad, Bilbo dear, for not looking after your mother better when your father passed away – it hit her very hard, after all, and I’m afraid I wasn’t there for her the way that I should have been.”

Bilbo patted his arm gently.

“Don’t be daft, old friend,” he replied, “there is no need for any of that. But tell me – how long do you think that’ll all take?”

“Oh,” said Gandalf, “about four weeks? Three, if we’re lucky, five or six if we’re not? We’ll see. It’s always a bit of a guessing game with these sorts of things.”

Bilbo nodded, idly.

“Sounds fine,” he replied. “Now, show me what I need to sign.”

 

\--

 

“Got news for you,” Beorn said, as he placed Bilbo’s dinner tray down on his table. “Good news, so brace yourself.”

Bilbo sighed, shuffling through the paperwork he had been trying to read for the last hour or so; it was complicatedly worded and exhaustingly painful to try and get through, but his father had always taught him to read the fine print, and so the fine print he would read, even if it was giving him one hell of a headache.

“Go on then,” he said, trying to fight back a yawn, “tell me everything.”

Beorn handed him a napkin, and Bilbo couldn’t quite stop himself from smiling; he was quite certain that there was no reason Beorn should look after him as much as he did, or fuss like a grandmother might – but despite his protests, Beorn continued to do so.

“Alright, alright!” he laughed, as Beorn continued to glare at the papers in his hands. “I’ll put them down. Now, will you just tell me already?”

Beorn nodded.

“The results from your CT just got back to us,” he said, squaring his broad shoulders. “Everything looks fine. No brain swelling, nothing bad to report whatsoever. The doctors are delighted.”

“Good,” said Bilbo, grinning. “Glad to hear it.”

“Indeed, little one,” Beorn said. “The doctors have said you can be discharged on Friday, bar any sudden change in your situation: you’ll be able to get home in four days. Good news, huh?”

Bilbo nodded, his smile faltering slightly.

“Uhuh,” he replied. “That’s… great news.”

 

\--

 

It was a day later that Thorin popped in on his way back from work (although the fact that the hospital was not actually on the way back to his house from his shop was a fact he was not willing to admit). He was not supposed to be staying long at all – he was just dropping off his mp3 charger, as in his rush to grab things in his house Bilbo had forgotten to pack his own – but when he arrived he found Bilbo in a deeply despondent mood.

He barely registered Thorin has he came through the door, just nodded absentmindedly as he stared at the far wall,  as if it were a window to some far off place.

“Okay?” Thorin asked, as Bilbo offered him a small smile.

Bilbo grimaced a response.

“Well enough,” he replied, and Thorin raised his eyebrows, waiting for Bilbo to elaborate. But the smaller man was just staring again, head resting on his folded arms, which lay across his bent legs as he sat on top of the bed sheets.

“Mmhmm,” Thorin said, placing the charger down on the bedside table and watching Bilbo cautiously out of the corner of one eye. The noise may have sounded neutral, but it was an unspoken question, a guiding tone, trying to draw Bilbo out.  

Bilbo sighed, resting his head back against the bed frame.

“I get discharged on Friday,” he said.

Thorin’s mouth half-opened, in surprise, before he nodded.

“Good,” he said, but he must have noticed that Bilbo was not entirely happy. “Isn’t it?”

Bilbo hummed, shrugging his shoulders.

“I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’ll be good to be out of here again – and to have time to myself, away from nurses, to just _not_ be in hospital any more. But… well.” He sighed, and shuffled the papers in front of him. There was nothing more he could do to them – these were just copies, Gandalf had taken the originals – but he couldn’t stop himself from leafing through them obsessively.

Thorin nodded.

“But you don’t have your house back, do you?”

“Exactly.”

Thorin sighed, and folded his arms.

“Are you going to go back there, before you get rid of them?”

Bilbo shook his head. He had considered moving back to Bag End, just slinking back into his life and avoiding Otho and Lobelia as much as was physically possible, but in the end he had just decided that it wasn’t worth the effort. It was his house, and he did not want to have to move back into it and feel wrong, feel displaced and angry, when he was recovering still; he said as much to Thorin, whose forehead furrowed deeply.

“What are you doing, then? Do you have family you’re going to stay with?”

Bilbo shook his head again, smiling ruefully.

“Not really, not ones who live close enough to the hospital – I’ll have to keep coming for my physical therapy quite often, so I really can’t move too far away. I have another cousin who might have been willing, but his wife is close to going into labour, and I don’t want to be in their way whilst everything is so stressful. I’m just going to check into a hotel for a while.”

Thorin made a noise in the back of his throat.

“Well-”

Bilbo smiled, eyes crinkling warmly at the corner, thinking that Thorin was about to protest the unspoken assertion that we was a burden, or else argue that Bilbo needed to have a more sound plan in mind when he only had a few days before he had to leave.

“Don’t worry, it-”

“Why don’t you stay with me?”

Bilbo stared at him. Thorin found himself unable to look anywhere else, and stared right back, although he badly wanted to avert his eyes.

“What?” Bilbo managed, after a while. “No, I mean, it’ll be weeks, you can’t-”

Thorin shrugged. He squared his shoulders, determined to go through with his offer now he had broached it, fighting down the embarrassment as he realised that he had just offered to let Bilbo _live_ with him, without thinking it through, without ever having even considered it before.

Had Bilbo just been a friend, it wouldn’t have felt so strange; but Bilbo was still a friend, even if he also felt something more towards him, and he couldn’t in all good conscience let him go and hole up in some hotel whilst he waited for the problems with his house to be settled.

“What, and you can spend weeks living in a hotel?”

Bilbo pulled a face.

“Well, maybe not, but even so… it could take up to six weeks, I can’t ask you to do that-”

“You’re not. I’m offering.”

Bilbo was frowning, and Thorin sighed.

“Look, I’ve got a spare room and a ground floor flat, I’m a shit cook but I’m relatively tidy, my family will probably nag the hell out of you, but they also won’t try and break into your study or steal your stuff, so they’ve got that going for them – and if Frerin pisses you off, you have my permission to throw a plate at him.”

Bilbo smiled, and caught the carefully restrained flicker of emotion that cut across Thorin’s expression; it was only then that he realised just how much it cost the man to make this offer – he was not the kind of man that would make an offer like this lightly, and it was also not the easiest thing for him to do. He watched the slow bob of Thorin’s Adam’s apple as he swallowed, and found himself nodding without quite meaning to.

“Alright,” he said, quietly, his other protests dying in his mouth. “If you really are sure?”

Thorin nodded, and then that small smile was back, just for a moment.

Bilbo wondered, for a half a moment, if he was going to end up regretting this.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POMM~ Midnight. Glasses. Water.

“Dis, I need the spare keys to my flat back for a while.”

Dis nodded absentmindedly, slowly stirring the saucepan on the hob, frowning down at it. Thorin plucked an apple from the bowl on the breakfast bar and bit into it, chewing slowly as he waited for his sister to respond.

“Sure,” she said, after a long moment, distracted, tapping the wooden spoon against the side of the pan, “Why, locked yourself out?”

Thorin shook his head, chewing slowly, and Dis caught sight of him out of the corner of her eye. She reached for the pepper, twisting it into the sauce, and tried a dab of it; she pulled a slightly sour expression, and rapped her fingernails against the counter surface.

“The wine,” Vivi told her from behind her newspaper, propped up at the breakfast bar with a large tumbler of whisky at her side, “You forgot the wine, dear.”

Dis laughed, his voice bright in the pleasant, airy room; the evening sunlight was shining in through the large dormer windows into the large kitchen – at the far end of the room Fili was curled up on the old sofa, a picture book propped open on his lap, whilst Kili snoozed upstairs. Thorin leant back against the bar, his shoulder brushing Vivi’s newspaper; she shuffled out of the way a little, but not before reaching over and flicking him gently on the ear.

“Wine, of course,” she said, reaching for the bottle on the side. “There’s always something. Anyway, Thorin, why do you need the spare key?”

He shrugged, swallowing another bite of his apple.

“Just need it for a few weeks,” he said, not willing to elaborate, and that of course was a mistake; it caught Dis’ attention better than an offhand half-truth might have done, and he wilted a little under the force of her stare. “I’ve got a friend staying for a while, that’s all.”

Dis stared at him.

“You don’t have any friends.”

Vivi made no noise, but the newspaper blocking the view of her face began to shake tellingly, the rustle of the paper belayed her silent laughter.

Thorin resisted the urge to shoot back with a childish denial; he had a number of friends, and didn’t need to get into a shouting match with his sister to prove that.

“Hilarious,” he replied instead, his face stern, “can I have the key or not?”

Dis rolled her eyes.

“Oh, alright, spoilsport,” she replied, opening a drawer and fishing insider. She came up with several keys, and sorted through them in her hand for a while before passing one over to Thorin. “Are you staying for dinner, by the way? There’s enough to go around.”

Thorin shook his head, “thanks, but I have some things I need to do.”

“So which friend is it?”

Thorin’s mouth opened a fraction, and then closed again. Dis eyed him.

“Does this have anything to do with the problems that you said your man in the hospital was having?”

Vivi, Thorin couldn’t help but notice, appeared to be peering over the top of her newspaper now. He rubbed the back of his head, awkwardly.

“Please don’t tell me you’ve asked him to move in with you. I mean, I’m sure it sounded romantic in your head but don’t you think that is jumping the gun a litte-”

“I did not ask him to move in with me,” Thorin interrupted, “Just to _stay,_ for a few weeks. He can’t move back into his own place because… well, he just can’t, and he was going to stay in a hotel-”

“That sounds awful,” Vivi chimed in, and Thorin nodded.

“Well,” said Dis, “it isn’t exactly a conventional start to a relationship, but then you didn’t exactly meet in normal circumstances, either.”

Thorin shoved the spare keys in his pocket, and stretched.

“We’re not _in_ a relationship,” he told the pair of them, who shot each other unimpressed glances.

“If you’re sure,” said Vivi. “When is he being discharged?”

“Friday.”

“Perfect,” said Dis, clapping her hands as the oven timer went off. “Then he’ll be able to come to dinner, Friday night, won’t he? _No_ arguments – he could do with a home-cooked meal, and take out does not constitute.”

Thorin pulled a face, but couldn’t really argue with that logic.

“Alright,” he said, finally. “Just… try to _behave_?”

Dis grinned.

Thorin didn’t feel reassured.

 

\--

 

Bilbo’s discharge had been in the late afternoon, and he had insisted that Thorin did not need to come and pick him up, that Thorin was already doing enough for him as it was without having to turn into his chauffeur as well. Thorin, in all honestly, wouldn’t have minded driving out to the hospital – would perhaps have preferred it to sitting here, feeling uncomfortable and impatient, waiting for the taxi to pull up outside.

Dis had descended on the apartment the day before, only to be disappointed; she had arrived with the intention to clean and tidy, only to find that Thorin had already done so – at least she had been able to stock the fridge up, which satisfied her a little.

“I didn’t even know you had a spare set of sheets,” she said, propped up in the doorway of his second bedroom – one that hadn’t once been used in the seven years that he’d lived here.

“I have a second bedroom, of course I have bedding for it.”

Dis smiled, and hooked her hand around his elbow.

“Wouldn’t put it past you. Remember – it took you four months to get a kitchen fitted. You just had a fridge for all that time.”

Thorin shrugged.

“First time since I was nineteen that I didn’t have to cook for anyone, it was a bloody relief to live of sandwiches.”

“Liar, you came over to ours every day in the first month to make sure we were alright.”

Dis squeezed his arm, ever so slightly, and Thorin tucked his arm and her hand slightly closer to her side in return.

“I missed the house, not you.”

She snorted, pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, and pulled away.

“We’ll see you both at seven, alright?”

Thorin nodded, and she left.

 

 

It was a nice sized apartment, though not overly large: a spacious living room lead to a smaller kitchen, the walls of both painted in greys and creams, oddly warm in the sunlight that streamed in through the windows. When he had said ‘apartment’ Bilbo had expected something modern, and had been pleased instead to find that it was the ground floor of a converted Victorian house, with open fires and tall ceilings and windows.

The floors were wooden, chipped and scuffed but varnished to a high shine, and long, dark blue curtains hung from every window to the floor, no doubt making the place quite snug once night had arrived and they were drawn.

Thorin led him slowly around the apartment: the sofas were sagging and the coffee table lined with rings from a thousand cups in the past, but his bookshelves were meticulously organised. Every chair around the dining table in the alcove of the kitchen was different to the next, but it was clean, and there were large prints lining the walls, clearly specifically chosen.

It was neither Spartan nor cluttered, but simply well-lived in a place that was clearly more than just somewhere to rest a head at night. There was a second alcove in the living room in which sat a huge desk, with multiple draws and a great magnification glass on a mounted stand. When Bilbo cocked his head at it, confused, Thorin simply shrugged.

“Jewellers table,” he answered, and explained no more, but there was a note of pride in his voice.

There was something more confident about Thorin here, some manner about his bearing or the line of his shoulders that made it seem as if he was standing taller, prouder. No, perhaps confident was the wrong word, Bilbo thought, because he never lacked in that capacity – perhaps instead you might say it was about the comfort of that confidence. In his own home Thorin seemed more at ease, less on guard.

Perhaps it is true what they say; and Englishman’s home really is his castle.

Bilbo found himself watching Thorin out of the corner of his eye, trying hard not to swallow at the sight.

He only got a brief peek in Thorin’s bedroom before he passed, but it looked much the same as any other. The bathroom was surprisingly modern, with a large sunken bath and a separate walk in shower with multiple shower head that Bilbo was quite looking forward to trying out, if he was going to be honest; the spare bedroom was painted pale blue, and was quite small, but perfectly functional, particularly since Bilbo did not have too much stuff.

Thorin placed his holdall on the chest of drawers, but Bilbo declined his offer to unpack; he’d do it eventually, in his own time.

“Are you sure it is alright, for me to go to dinner with your family?” Bilbo asked, as they made their way back to the living room, and Thorin shot him a surprised glance over his shoulder.

“They asked,” he said. “It should be me asking you if you’re sure. Do you want anything?”

“Tea would be quite nice,” Bilbo replied, “But don’t worry, I’ll make it.”

Thorin followed him through to the kitchen anyway, hovering as Bilbo filled the kettle and found the jar of teabags. The cupboard containing the mugs was right above him, and as Thorin reached for a pair he found himself resting his hand on Bilbo’s lower back, balancing himself, without even thinking about it – it was only as he was placing them down for Bilbo to put teabags into in them.

Bilbo pressed back into his touch, just a little, and Thorin found himself unwilling to move.

And then, quite suddenly, he stepped forward.

Bilbo sighed, and it was a soft and gentle sound.

Thorin had not been exactly behind Bilbo, so only a part of his chest pressed against Bilbo’s back, but that line of warmth was quite enough to silence them both. Thorin watched, over Bilbo’s shoulder, as he made the tea, taking an odd satisfaction in the fact that Bilbo already knew how to make tea the way he liked it – with two sugars, and plenty of milk.

“Your garden is nice,” Bilbo said, quietly, the mug held in both his hands.

“Mmhmm,” Thorin said.

Calling it a garden was perhaps an oversell of the square of lawn he sometimes remembered to mow, but he didn’t feel like arguing on the matter. He had glimpsed just a part of Bilbo’s own back garden through the hall window, and knew it was nothing compared to what was waiting for the smaller man, back home.

He didn’t move his hand from Bilbo’s lower back, or his torso from Bilbo’s, although he sorely wanted to press himself closer and wrap an arm fully around him; he simply reached around with his other hand to take his own mug, and the pair of them stood there in silence as they drank. After a while, though, Thorin stepped away, placed his mug in the sink, and made his way back to the living room; he glanced over his shoulder at Bilbo in the doorway, a small quirk of a smile inviting him to follow.

“So is there anything I should know about your family?” Bilbo asked, as he followed him through. “Apart from what you’ve already told me?”

Thorin shook his head.

“They’re interfering and loud and a pain in the ass.”

“And you love them,” Bilbo said, his smiled growing wider as Thorin grunted a noise that could have been a yes or a no. “Where do they live?”

“The next street over,” Thorin said, “Where we grew up.”

Bilbo nodded, and hovered awkwardly for a moment, before sinking down into the armchair. “So your sister, her wife and the boys live in your childhood home?”

Thorin hummed his agreement.

“I signed it over to them as a wedding present.”

Bilbo made a surprised noise in the back of his throat. “What?”

Thorin sat, a little stiffly, on the sofa, shrugging. “I took over the mortgage when my parents died – there wasn’t much of it left, my inheritance covered all but a few thousand. And we lived there for another ten years or so, until Frerin and Dis had both moved out, graduated university, and I’d set up my business.”

It was quite strange, Bilbo thought; some of this he had heard before, in odd snatches here and there, but there was something pleasant about hearing Thorin talk about himself, even if he was repeating certain things. His face wore this comforted half-smile when he spoke of his family, his shoulders relaxing: he seemed more at peace than any other time, when he talked about them.

“How old was she, when she got married?”

Thorin smiled, a little ruefully.

“Twenty three. I told her she was too young and she was making a mistake. She told me to shove it.”

Bilbo’s head turned to one side.

“And was it?”

Thorin shook his head.

“It was probably the best idea she’s ever had. Other than having Fili and Kili, of course.”

“So why did you give her the house?”

Thorin sat back in the sofa, and glanced thoughtfully up at the ceiling.

“It was too big for me, I was rattling around in there. It’s a family house. It needs _family_. And Dis and Vivi were always going to end up with kids – it wouldn’t surprise me if they have a few more, down the line.”

Bilbo nodded. “What about Frerin?”

Thorin shrugged.

“Frerin got my father’s investment portfolio instead. He’s smart, studied Economics and Politics at University, he’s made a killing on the stock market with them. He doesn’t mind about the house – besides, we all end up there at least once a week anyway, for dinner or to look after the boys. And Frerin lived there, after he was attacked – we were all a little overprotective, after that.”

“Shocking,” said Bilbo, shooting a fond, teasing smile at Thorin when he gave him an unimpressed look in return.

Bilbo hummed, pulling his legs up to sit cross-legged on the oversized armchair.

“And what did you get?”

Thorin blinked.

“What do you mean?”

Bilbo huffed, and stretched his legs out once more, wincing at the unpleasant tension. “Well, your sister got the house and your brother got the shares; what did you get? Other than a mortgage at nineteen.”

Thorin smiled, and it was a strange, distant smile. He looked down at his hands, before glancing over at where Bilbo was still stretching out his legs. He shuffled along to one end of the sofa, and nodded at the space.  

“I got my parents’ rings.”

“Is that the one you always wear?” Bilbo asked as he got up, and padded over to the sofa, settling down at the far end to Thorin and putting his feet up on the sofa; it wasn’t quite long enough, so his knees were still bent, ankles pushed into the dark purple-grey suede.

Thorin started, his eyebrows shooting up; he hadn’t realised that Bilbo would have noticed the heavy ring he wore. He nodded, a little hesitantly.

“There were four rings, originally; my father’s signet ring, my mother’s engagement ring, and their wedding bands. Turning old jewellery into new is a side-line speciality of my business – these were the first I made.”

“Where are they all now?”

Thorin rand his fingers over the ring, before hesitantly pulling it off and passing it over to Bilbo. It lay, warm and heavy, in the palm of his hand; he turned it over, looking at it carefully. Running around both the inside and the outside were inscriptions, the edges worn smooth with time.

“I made one for each of us; the diamond from the engagement ring went on Dis’, and she used it to propose to Vivi. Frerin has the emblem from the signet ring, and I have the engravings from their wedding bands.”

Bilbo shook his head slowly; the thing that Thorin kept for himself, and he ended up dividing that anyway.

“It’s beautiful,” he said, turning it over in his hands. “Really, it is.”

He glanced up, just in time to catch the flush of pleasure, quickly hidden again under neutrality.

“If… if you wouldn’t mind, would you show me some other things you’ve made? I’d like to see.”

Thorin smiled.

“I’d like to show you,” he answered, “very much.”

Bilbo handed the ring back, and rubbed self-consciously at his thigh. Thorin watched him for a moment before huffing, and pulling Bilbo’s ankles up over his own lap, so that his legs stretched out properly.

“Thanks,” said Bilbo, a little sheepishly.

Thorin just nodded, sliding his ring back on his finger and watching the way it caught the sunlight.

Soon enough the tension around Bilbo’s eyes eased out, and he sat back, huffing a quiet sigh.

“We should head off,” Thorin said, quietly. “If you’re alright?”

Bilbo nodded, shifting his feet to the floor, and levering himself to standing.

“Just…” Thorin paused, as he followed Bilbo to his feet, face pulled into a frown.

“I’m just sorry, in advance, for my family, alright?”


	23. Chapter 23

“Good luck,” Thorin muttered through gritted teeth as he unlocked the latch on the front door of the large, detached house. “You’ll need it.”

Bilbo’s mouth opened to say something, anything, but he was hit with a wall of noise before he could; he paused for a moment before following Thorin in, holding to the door frame to manage the steep step into the house. He had hovered on the edge of asking Thorin what, exactly, his family knew about him, or them (whatever, exactly, _them_ even was) but had held himself back, unsure what answer he wanted. Did he want Thorin to have introduced him as a friend? No, because he was quite sure that they were _more_ than that, on some level; at the same time, they actually hadn’t done or said _anything_ that would really imply otherwise – other than a few light touches and moments where their hands had pressed together there was nothing about their actions that might be read as anything other than friendship.

That thought made him feel a little nauseous, though he couldn’t really explain why.

There was loud, deep laughter, the chattering of a small child talking loudly, and the screams of an infant, as well as the background noise of music and the clamour of what sounded like an oven timer going off. Bilbo paused in the hallway, unsure whether they should continue, but Thorin just rolled his eyes and tugged lightly on Bilbo’s sleeve, half-towing him down the hallway.

They came to a long, bright kitchen, running the width of the house; Kili was sat in a high-chair, bawling at the top of his lungs, whilst a woman stood at the sink, tap running. She was humming along with the music gently, and turned just as they came through the door.

“Oh!” she said, “You must be Bilbo. So sorry, give me just a second.”

She had been cooling a bottle under the tap, it seemed, and with a well-practised skill she unclipped Kili, rested him on her hip, and stuck the bottle in his mouth. He silenced almost immediately, eyes bright now he was being fed.

Dis – for it could only have been Dis – rather surprised Bilbo. He had perhaps expected someone who looked similar to Thorin, and in a way she did – that was certainly the same straight ridge of a nose, the same intensity of her eyes, the same heavy wave to her hair – but her face was inexplicably softer, her expression open rather than shuttered, shrewd rather than stern. It left an odd feeling of displacement, to see so many similarities yet differences at the same time, and Bilbo just smiled, a little awkwardly.

“And you must be Dis.”

She nodded.

“It’s nice to finally put a face to the name.”

“Ah, you too.”

They stood, in a tense and uncomfortable silence for half a moment as Dis looked between the two of them carefully. Laughter and chatter could still be heard from some other room, and Bilbo chewed on the inside of his mouth, suddenly realising that he had not actually asked Thorin _who_ he was meeting for dinner. He had assumed it would just be Dis and Vivi and the boys, and since he had already met three of that four had not been too concerned: now he was starting to realise that there might be more to it than that.

“Thorin,” Dis said, after a moment. “Drinks? Vee is in the shower, she’s only just got back from work, and Dwalin’s still complaining about having to close up by himself. Sort it out.”

Thorin rolled his eyes, but left Bilbo’s side and headed to the far end of the kitchen. Next to a large, battered sofa was a dark wooden cabinet, a little scuffed and obviously reclaimed and restored; it stood about the same height as the kitchen counters, and was topped with a great piece of cut glass. He ducked, briefly, opening a cupboard and pulling out glasses.

“We’re just having tuna, I hope you like fish,” Dis said, softly, and Bilbo looked away from where Thorin had just pulled out a dark green, jug-shaped bottle, and five glasses.

“Um, yeah, I do – that’ll be amazing after months of hospital food.”

She nodded, pulling the now-empty bottle from Kili’s mouth, sliding him down to the ground.

“Seven glasses, Thorin, not five. Bilbo, you are having one?”

 _Seven glasses,_ Bilbo thought, _who on earth is here?_

Thorin seemed to mirror his surprise, and raised his eyebrows, glancing over at his sister as he measured and poured.

“Dis,” he said, sounding pained, “this wasn’t supposed to be a big thing.”

She grinned, fluffing her hair a little as she pulled a pair of mangoes out of the fridge.

“It’s _not_ ,” she replied, just as Bilbo murmured, “Would you like a hand?”

“You can peel and dice these, if you like,” she said to Bilbo, who smiled: there was something infinitely relaxing about someone who _let_ you help in the kitchen, rather than just hovering awkwardly. He felt a tugging against his leg, and looked down: Kili had crawled over to him, and had levered himself up to standing, holding on to Bilbo’s trousers, legs wobbling.

Bilbo could empathise.

“Hey, little guy,” he said, as Dis got him out a knife and chopping board. “Look at you – and you’re learning without a physical therapist. Not too shabby.”

Kili grinned up at him, his other fist stuck in his mouth, and Thorin let out a low laugh behind him. Kili continued to cling as Bilbo began to peel, and after a moment Dis excused herself, padding out of the kitchen, leaving just the three of them and the quiet background music. Bilbo kept his eyes on the fruit.

“So,” he said, after a moment, trying to keep his tone light, and unconcerned. “Who am I meeting today?”

Thorin’s voice, when he replied, was much closer than Bilbo had expected; he had come up behind Bilbo with a glass in one hand, and placed one on the table next to him.

“There’s you and me,” he started, and Bilbo felt an odd thrill at it being said like that, as if they were a pair, as if they were together, “Dis and Vee, Frerin. Dwalin and Balin-”

“Your cousins, right?”

Thorin nodded. “Dwalin and I work together, and Balin is a marriage councillor.”

Bilbo hummed his acknowledgement, moving on to the second mango.

Thorin’s hand rested on his shoulder, for just the briefest of moments, in silent support.

He’d finished the mangoes and was talking to Kili by the time Dis and Vivi came back, the blonde with damp hair around the temples and looking infinitely comfortable in pyjama bottoms and a vest; she offered Bilbo a small, apologetic smile, and scooped up a glass from the bar.

“I don’t do formal, on a Friday evening.”

Bilbo laughed, and reached for his own cocktail, still untouched; despite the fact that he barely knew these people, they were doing their best to make him feel welcome, to not go out of their way to act any different to how they normally would. He’d been painfully anxious when he had remembered that this was the first time that he had really socialised in months, and though he was finding himself a little tongue-tied, it was much easier than he had expected.

Then another man appeared in the doorway, leaning indolently against the frame, his gaze raking up and down Bilbo, although not in an unfriendly way.

“Hullo,” he said, “You must be Bilbo Baggins.”

If Bilbo had been displaced by Dis, Frerin – because who else could it be? – was even worse: his hair was lighter, his jaw a little squarer, and his face less lined, but otherwise he was remarkably similar to Thorin, although his eyes were a very striking shade of green.

“Nice to meet you,” he said, but Frerin was shoved unceremoniously out of the way by a taller man of a similar age – his arms folded across his chest, short sleeves revealing the strong, bold lines of a matching pair of tattoos on each arm, that Bilbo could not quite make out. His head was shaved, and his brows drawn into a frown, but any intimidation he might have been attempting was rather ruined by the blonde-haired boy sat across his shoulders.

“Hello, Fili,” Bilbo said smiling up at the boy, who hid his blush against the bald man’s head. “And you must be Frerin,” he said, nodding to the first man, who was now glaring at the man who had shoved him out of the way, “Which must make you Dwalin.”

Dwalin nodded, and Dis passed him a cocktail. The small tumbler, with the slight pink-ish colour of its contents and the garnish of mint and a cucumber twist looked out of place in his hands, but he didn’t seem bothered by that at all.

“And I’m Balin,” came a tempered tone from behind the pair. “And if these _idiots_ would move out the way, I could meet you properly.”

Balin’s salt-and-pepper hair was leaning closer to white, it seemed, but his face was still quite youthful; he propped himself up against the wall and smiled at Bilbo.

“So you’re the one Thorin has been visiting,” he said, his eyes warm.

“Ah, yes,” said Bilbo, not entirely sure where this was going, but luckily Fili saved him.

“I’ve been visiting him too!” he chipped in, before glancing down Bilbo and blushing again. Dwalin lifted the boy down from his shoulders, and he lolled against his legs for a moment before darting over to Dis.

“You look much better now you’re awake,” Frerin said, grinning, and Dwalin snorted.

“That’s creepy as hell, Frerin.”

The man looked affronted. “Oh, shut up, he knows what I mean.”

“Umm,” replied Bilbo, a little lost as bickering broke out, the three of them and Vivi all exchanging rapid-fire banter across the room, leaving Bilbo unsure of what entirely he was supposed to do – or if he was supposed to join in at all. There was something so comfortable about the group, clearly so used to each other, and he chewed on his lip – perhaps once he would have known what to do in this kind of situation, but it seemed that he was going to have to re-learn his social skills.

There was a sharp, citrusy smell, and Bilbo glanced to his side, where Thorin had stolen a tangerine from the fruit bowl, and was busy peeling it, seemingly oblivious to his family’s bickering – perhaps he was simply used to it. He caught Bilbo’s glance, shrugged, and passed him a segment; Bilbo took it, rolling his eyes, missing the glances that the rest of Thorin’s family shot each other.

He didn’t miss the curious look that Balin was levelling him, though, and took a deep draught of his drink to try and hide his embarrassment.

The cocktail was sharp, grapefruit and a good after-kick of spirits, the strange sweetness of the cucumber and mint just cutting through, biting with the taste of the tangerine on his tongue. He moved, just a touch, closer to Thorin, although he was not entirely sure why.

Fili made a humph of protest.

“Why is Uncle Thorin allowed to snack before dinner, and I’m not?”

Thorin looked unspeakably guilty, and Bilbo bit his lip. Frerin caught his eye, clearly about to begin his teasing again, and Bilbo’s shoulders slumped, just a little.

Dis seemed to notice his discomfort, and stepped physically between the group and Bilbo and Thorin, clapping her hands.

“Right – Dwalin, plates; Balin, cutlery. Let’s eat at the garden table. Frerin, make up a jug of water; Vee, will you take out the highchair? Thorin, will you get Fili a juice, and carry Kili down?”

They jumped to attention, and Bilbo couldn’t help but smile at the effortless way they all moved around each other, clearly so comfortable in their company. He had missed this, he thought, the realisation dawning on him quite suddenly as he pressed himself back against the counter to stay out of the way; not just in the last few months, but in the last few _years._ This thrum of something he couldn’t describe as anything more than _family_ moved gently around him, tugging at something almost painful in his chest.

“Anything I can do?” he asked Dis, quietly, and she smiled.

“Carry the salad out, if you don’t mind?”

Dinner was seared tuna steaks, tiny new potatoes steamed and drenched in butter, and a pea-shoot salad; the mangos Bilbo had chopped were mixed with chili, fresh coriander and onion, and turned into a fresh and oddly complimentary salsa; the sunlight was low but still warm enough, and they sat out long into the evening, Balin smoking deeply fragrant cigars and Fili yawning with increasing frequency against Dis’ side. Vivi took Kili up to put him to sleep after a while, and returned with deep glasses of wine for them all, dry and crisp.

Bilbo’s thigh pressed against Thorin’s on the bench-seat that ran one length of the table, and he smiled even as the setting sun got into his eyes.

The conversation flowed easier, and to Bilbo’s relief no one pressured him too much to join in, or to offer much information about himself, though he occasionally caught them giving him long looks, and Frerin still made the odd teasing joke – particularly when Bilbo started to yawn.

Bilbo had just rolled his eyes at them – he probably shouldn’t have found coma jokes funny, but he couldn’t quite help it. Better to laugh, he figured, than dwell on it too long.

Thorin, when they were walking home, much later in the evening, seemed to feel a little awkward about it, though.

“I’m sorry about my brother – he’s always been like that.”

Bilbo shrugged, quite honestly not that concerned. “He was fine, just a little… much.”

Thorin shook his head.

“He’s always been… a lot. Over-confident. Intelligent, and he was always good-looking, even as a child.”

Bilbo glanced down at his hands.

“I think you’re all good-looking, to be honest: you’re a remarkably attractive family.”

He shot a small smile at Thorin; he had wanted to try and ease that sudden and momentarily tense tone, that unspoken worry, but had not quite had the nerve to come outright and say it, say that _I think you’re attractive, very attractive, sometimes I have to stop and remind myself to breathe when you look at me._

Thorin’s eyes creased at the corners, one side of his mouth twisting up, and their hands brushed, just briefly.

Bilbo thought he’d picked up on it, just a little.

It didn’t take them long to get back to Thorin’s, although in a way Bilbo wished that it would take them longer, so that they might spend their time together under the warm weight of the night for more time; they might wander along quiet pavements in silence, passing under the pooling glow of the streetlights, and after a while Bilbo would have enough of Thorin’s self-restraint and reach out for his hand, and perhaps hold it or else sling around his shoulders, and press close to Thorin’s side. They might even come to a stop, face each other; Thorin’s hand would cup his jaw and he would lean a little closer, and-

“Hey,” said Thorin, quietly, half-turning as he waited in the hallway for Bilbo to come in. “Alright?”

Bilbo nodded, rubbing at his nose, following him in, shutting the front door behind him and padding after Thorin, down the hall, to their bedrooms.

“More than.”

Thorin smiled at him, and Bilbo felt something clench in his chest.

“Well,” Thorin said, moving towards his own bedroom door. “Goodnight.”

Bilbo nodded, but Thorin was still staring at him, something tense and unspoken in his gaze. His fingers twitched against the door, as if he were having to stop himself from reaching out; Bilbo’s breath caught, just for a moment, in his throat.

“Night,” he replied, his voice a little hoarse.

Thorin’s mouth opened, he moved slightly, in Bilbo’s direction it seemed… and then his shoulders sagged, and he took a half-step backwards, and his smile stretched into something warm and fond.

“Sleep well,” he said, quietly, before stepping into his room, and shutting the door behind him.

“Yeah,” said Bilbo, to the empty hallway, his face red-hot.

“Yeah, you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LONG NOTE. 
> 
> Firstly, I'd just like to say thank you so much to you all who are all still mad enough to be reading this -- it is much appreciated, it honestly is. Now quite a few people have commented that they were looking forward to Bilbo meeting the Durin's, and I'm sorry if this chapter is disappointing -- there is going to be plenty more moments between Bilbo and the Durin's, but they are on their best behaviour for the first meeting. 
> 
> Secondly, that is the cocktail I make on days like today; hot and humid, when it feels as if the weight of the sky is resting on your shoulders with how heavy it is. I come home and pour myself one, go and sit in my garden, smoke, and let the night draw in. Try it - it's two parts Hendricks Gin , one part Grapefruit vodka, one part Grapefruit juice, three parts soda water, over ice. You know you want one.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *cackles manically* (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

The first week passed quickly, which surprised Bilbo, given how little he had to do. Gandalf assured him that he could do to push the process to retrieve his home along, and Bofur would have skinned him alive if he had done anything too strenuous; he was without his car, which still (hopefully) was in his garage, and Thorin was at work all day. Every few days he called a taxi to take him to the hospital, or to see the odd friend or relative, but otherwise his days were quite empty; he had perhaps expected to see more of Thorin’s family, but they had remained at a distance, though whether or not that was because they were busy, or because Thorin had asked them to back off, he wasn’t entirely sure.

He distracted himself by running his fingers along the spines of Thorin’s books, occasionally picking one to read, though he always seemed to abandon it after just a few chapters, his mind unable to focus for much longer than that. He longed for his garden, for long and slow hours spent weeding or pruning, for sitting in the grass and idly rubbing velvet-soft petals between his fingertips.

Thorin, of course, had a garden, but an unanticipated bout of stormy weather limited his time in it; the rain seemed determined to fall with ceaseless promise every day, never relenting or softening, and great rolls of thunder woke him in the early hours of the mornings on more than one occasion. The weather was heavy, pensive in its humidity, the storms a frequent barrage of light and noise, as if the sky itself were impatiently waiting for some unexplained moment.

 He felt that way, too, though he was hard pressed to explain what, exactly, it was he was yearning for.

It was worse, he thought, that that was a lie. He knew exactly what thoughts ran behind his eyes when he tried to sleep.

For that was what he was trying to do right now; he lay in the dark room, listening to thunder, distant now but still audible, pealing across the night sky. It must have been long past midnight, yet sleep still evaded him, though he was warm and full and content. Thorin had brought home Thai food, and they had eaten it sat cross-legged on the living room floor, designs that Thorin had been working on spread out across the coffee table in front of them. Bilbo was hardly an expert, but there was something soothing about hearing Thorin explain each choice, each facet of the design, watching the sure confidence with which he might sketch the swooping line of a chain, or the curve of a ring.

Though sometimes he knew he ended up watching Thorin’s face, more than anything else.

It had become something of a habit, this last week, for the two of them to stretch across the floor together, sometimes talking, other times in silence as Thorin worked and Bilbo flicked through the pages of a book. To share the sofa seemed like too intimate a thing, and yet he was not quite prepared to sit in the armchair, away from the other man, either; the sofa was a safe compromise, he thought, for both of them, allowing them to be close enough that they could occasionally exchange a light touch, without the enforced closeness of a shared seat.

He’d gone to bed before Thorin; he could hear the thrum of the shower now, low and quiet, so he must have finally finished working for the evening. He had felt tired, had hoped he would sleep, but sleep it seemed continued to escape him; he tossed and turned, but there was a dry brittleness to his mouth, and after a while he sighed, and gave in, and got out of bed.

He didn’t bother turning on any lights as he padded to the kitchen; the streetlamps outside provided just enough illumination for him to navigate the living room and hallways, and for him to find a glass and fill it from the sink.

The water was cool, and eased his parched throat; he took long, slow drinks, feeling the chill of it in his throat and smiling against the rim in the warm humidity.

“What are you doing in the dark?”

Bilbo jumped, and his glass slammed down against the counter; he had not heard anyone approach, too lost in thought, and the sudden voice behind him had thrown him completely; Thorin’s voice was warm and amused from the doorway, and far too close.

He glanced over his shoulder, and had to look away again almost immediately. Damn it all, people should just not be allowed to walk around like that.

“Ah, just getting a glass of water?”

He bit his lip, not entirely sure why he had phrased it as a question; it certainly _was_ what he was doing, that was quite obvious.

“Are you alright?” asked Thorin, and Bilbo could _feel_ him coming into the kitchen, coming closer.

He swallowed. Thorin was quite enough of a distraction as it was, with his half-quirks of smiles and his deep, heavy voice, the breadth of his shoulders and the lightness of his touch, without him wandering around with a towel draped around his shoulders and loose cotton pyjamas hanging low on his hips; it wasn’t _fair_ in any way to the people that had to look at him and hold a responsible conversation afterwards.

Bilbo wasn’t entirely sure he’d ever felt that conflicted at the sight of a male chest before. One the one hand, cover it up, on the other, _please do not._

“Are you in pain?”

 _Not in the way that you think,_ Bilbo almost answered, but he cut himself off, shaking his head and taking another deep draught of water to hide his embarrassment instead. He watched a bead of rainwater roll slowly down the window instead, lit with the haze of the streetlight outside.

He turned, slowly, knowing he would only appear stranger if he kept his eyes averted from his host, shaking his head as he did, and was distracted almost immediately, but not perhaps by what he had expected - his gaze was instead drawn to Thorin’s ribcage.

“Oh,” he said, his voice a little odd sounding to his own ears. “I, umm. I didn’t realise you had a tattoo.”

Thorin glanced down at it, almost as if he himself were surprised at its appearance, but then he offered a curt nod.

“I got it when I was twenty,” he said, with a small twist of his mouth that could have been in humour, but could have been something else, as well.

Bilbo nodded.

“May I… see?”

Thorin lifted his right arm slightly (and Bilbo took great care not to notice how that movement caused a shift of the muscles under his skin) to show it, and Bilbo tilted his head. It curled all around his side, thick lines of black, though in the dark of the kitchen Bilbo couldn’t quite make out, exactly, what it was, not without moving a little closer.

He could hear Thorin’s breath, close and, perhaps, a little uneven.

Bilbo reached, without quite meaning to, his fingertips tracing the thick strokes, running across the indentation of his ribcage until it came to the bottom, and Thorin flinched, wincing away from the touch.

“Tickles,” he said, and it should have sounded ridiculous, but it didn’t; his voice was low and quiet, almost a little hoarse, and his hand closed over Bilbo’s, reaching around his own body, pressing it flat to his skin.

Bilbo’s mouth opened in a silent ‘oh’, but his breath caught in his throat.

He could barely make out Thorin’s eyes in the darkness of the room; the rain beat a steady rhythm against the window panes.

Thorin’s hand slipped from on top of his, but Bilbo did not move his; his eyes felt heavy, in something other than sleep, as Thorin’s palm moved up the length of his arm, across the line of his shoulder, to his neck.

His fingertips brushed, light and brief, against his throat.

Then they were moving, Bilbo pressing upwards as Thorin’s hand pushed through his hair, hard enough almost to hurt, tilting his head, and they were kissing, fierce and deep. His eyes were closed, and he didn’t remember when that happened, and he forced them open as Thorin sucked his lower lip in between his teeth, worrying at it; he stared, just for a moment, just to make sure that it really was _real._

Then Thorin let out a low, quiet noise, something close to a moan, and he was gone.

There was no damn purchase on bare skin, he thought almost desperately has his hand followed the contours of Thorin’s chest, no fabric to hold on to, to steady himself, to slow himself down; all he was left with was the frustrating heat of skin and the desire to map every part of it even as Thorin’s kiss was utterly ruining him.

He half stumbled as Thorin pressed him against the kitchen counter, but his back hit the woodwork before he could; his hands found the surface and began to lift, broad hands against his hips helping to get him up on to it. They parted, for a slow second, staring at each other, Bilbo just slightly above him now, before he took hold of Thorin by the shoulders and drew him between his parted legs, kissing him again.

Thorin was murmuring against his mouth now, his voice _wrecked,_ and Bilbo couldn’t quite bring his head to the right frame of mind to listen to him properly – he caught just the tail end of one breath, smiling into the kiss.

“Waiting _so damn long-”_

“Me too,” Bilbo managed, pressing quick, light kisses to Thorin’s mouth before arms were wrapping around him again, their bodies flush together; his hand slipped from Thorin’s hair to his throat, and he could feel the quiver of his pulse under his skin.

He wanted to be _closer,_ he needed to feel that thrum _better,_ and he wrenched away from the kiss to suck the skin, pulling at it gently with his teeth, the sudden gasp Thorin let out only helping him to draw it in; the felt the tremor of his heartbeat against the inside of his lower lip, and felt something deep and carnal and beautiful _sing_ in his chest.

Thorin’s hands were underneath Bilbo’s shirt now, running up the curve of his lower back, kneading and pressing, pushing against the skin as if he could somehow move Bilbo closer; he knew he was leaving a mark against Thorin’s throat but could not bring himself to care.

He realised that he was the one murmuring now, in the quiet darkness of the room, though he did not know what he was saying.

He let the skin go, and Thorin’s nose was against his cheek, nudging him upwards, and then they were kissing again, slower and deeper now, though no less urgent. Bilbo’s shirt was twisted in Thorin’s hands, he was running his nails down the line of Thorin’s back, and then there was the scrape of glass against the countertop, a sudden smash, and Bilbo felt a splash of water hit his legs.

Thorin tensed for a moment, before pulling back from the kiss.

He had knocked the glass Bilbo had been using clean from the counter, too distracted to notice what was around them; he stared down at it with such a clear bemusement, as if he had no idea where it had come from, and Bilbo couldn’t help but laugh.

“I should-”

Thorin shook his head.

“No, I can…”

They caught each other’s eye, Bilbo still perched on the counter, ankles still locked around Thorin’s hips. Thorin rubbed at his jaw with the heel of his hand.

“That was-”

“Unexpected,” finished Bilbo. “But not...”

He couldn’t finish, couldn’t quite grasp the word he had been searching for now that Thorin’s hands were back under his shirt, running lightly up the line of his spine, but it seemed that the other man understood.

Thorin smiled, a small but heartfelt smile, and leant forwards, resting his forehead against Bilbo’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> forgive typos, I cannot re-read my own intimate scenes for love nor money, I just die of second-hand embarrassment.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick update, because I spent my day looking at flamingos and bats and tigers rather than doing anything productive (wait, does fanfic count as 'something productive'? My priorities may be skewed...)

 

“What,” asked Dwalin, “is _that_?”

Thorin held himself back from lifting his hand to cover his throat, where he knew a rather vivid and noticeable mark had appeared the night before; even how he could feel the slight heat of it, the faint burn and tingle of it, as if the blood were _pressing_ against his skin, reminding him intensely of the evening just passed.

He could have touched it; he _wanted_ to touch it, to probe it, to push, to see if it would hurt; it would remind him that it had happened, that it wasn’t just some strangely vivid dream, some moment of madness. He’d woken that morning with a blinding headache and a strange twist of panic in his chest, some inexplicable fear that he had never followed Bilbo into the kitchen, that he had never felt Bilbo’s hand against his ribcage, never pressed close and _closer_ until there was no space left between them. It had not abated as he had showered, nor as he had drank cup after cup of coffee as he got ready for work – it had only loosened, easing apart, when Bilbo had padded into the kitchen, blinking sleepily.

He had run a hand through his hair, and had glanced at Thorin; he must have seen something in his expression, some telling shade of that fear, because he’d smiled, and reached for Thorin’s hand.

Bilbo had run a thumb, quite gently, over Thorin’s knuckles, before lifting it, and placing a small, light kiss against the palm.

“Good morning,” he’d said, and Thorin’s hand had been in Bilbo’s hair before he had known it, cupping his head, his other hooking through the loop of Bilbo’s dressing-gown cord.

“Morning,” Thorin had replied, and he wasn’t sure if Bilbo had been able to tell that he had been feeling a little breathless.

He hadn’t kissed him, though he had wanted to; he had kissed Bilbo in darkness, just the midnight street-glow of the lights outside illuminating the room. Now he wanted to kiss him in the bright morning light, in the early-sunlight glow streaming in through the windows; the storms, it had seemed, had finally broken, blowing away in the night. He wanted to open his eyes and see the porcelain of Bilbo’s eyelids, the faint blue traces of veins; he wanted to hear Bilbo’s breathy noises as Thorin pushed closer against a background melody of distant traffic, daytime television and the whistle of the kettle.

He had held back, though, almost afraid of pushing something so new, something that they hadn’t discussed, hadn’t explained.

Bilbo, though, seemed to have no such concern; he'd reached up on his tip-toes and pressed a quick peck against Thorin’s mouth, oddly familiar despite how new this whole thing was. As he’d backed away his face registered his surprise at his own actions, as if Bilbo had not quite realised what he was doing, and that warmed some deep and unexpected part of Thorin, that Bilbo felt so unerringly comfortable with him, with… _them_ , that he'd offered a kiss without even thinking.

He’d chased Bilbo’s mouth as he’d backed away, looking nervous, kissing him once more in return.

And now Dwalin was beaming at him.

“Aren’t you too old for _love bites,_ Thorin?”

He was tempted to punch his cousin, but instead he just ignored Dwalin, and unlocked the door between the workshop and the front of the shop, striding quickly away from his crowing laughter.

“Seriously,” continued Dwalin, following him out and clearly not concerned that Thorin quite obviously did _not_ want to talk about it. “ _Seriously.”_

Thorin cleared his throat and made his way swiftly across the shop floor, running his fingers briefly along the wooden frames of the counters. The room was dark, the windows still covered, and he lifted the shutters with a little more aggression than was necessary.

Then he caught sight of his own reflection in the gilded glass; even he could see the dark mark.

He tried not to smile.

He thought he might have failed.

 

* * *

 

 **09:13                               23/07/14**  
 **To: Dis**  
Make up an excuse. Come into the shop. ASAP. 

 **09:18                               23/07/14**  
 **From: Dis**  
On my way. Why?

 **09:21                               23/07/14**  
 **To: Dis**  
Look at his damned neck.

 

* * *

 

“Thorin, I just came to drop off that- oh, my.”

His stared at him. He managed to avoid wilting under her scrutiny, but it was hard work; he squared his shoulders, and stiffened his jaw, into that expression that his siblings had told him made him look unimpressed and rather unfriendly. Apparently it often scared people off. 

Shame it never seemed to work on family.

“I _know,_ ” said Dwalin, and Dis propped her elbows up on the counter, staring intently at her older brother. From beside her, in his pushchair, Kili grinned, reaching up to Thorin as soon as he caught sight of him.

At least Kili didn’t seem to care about his personal life. He stuck his tongue out at his nephew, who crowed and clapped his hands – a more recent act of coordination that he showed off as often as possible. Pulling faces at Kili also meant that he would be able to avoid looking at Dis’ face for as long as possible.

“What _happened?_ ” Dis asked, her voice gleeful. “Tell me immediately.”

Thorin scowled.

“Hardly your business, Dis.”

She rolled her eyes.

“It’s _always_ my business, Thorin,” Dis answered. “Did you kiss him first? _When?_ I know you asked us to give him some space but if you tell me that you only managed to kiss him _yesterday_ I’m disowning you. If it has taken you a damn week to admit that you’re head over heels for the guy then I-“

“ _Dis,_ ” Thorin cut in, feeling impossibly awkward. “Dis, _shut up._ ”

She stared at him.

“You have told him how you feel, right?”

Thorin glared back.

“What?”

“I mean,” she said, her forehead starting to furrow. “You didn’t just bed him and _not talk,_ did you?”

She watched the flicker of his expression, minute movements that could only be understood through many years of concentrated study. After a long pause she sighed, and ran a hand through her hair.

“Oh, _Thorin,_ ” she said. “You’re an _idiot._ ”

“Am not,” Thorin retorted, voice quiet and irritated, “and I didn’t just bed him and not ta-”

“So you have slept with him?”

Thorin was starting to flush now, about his ears, still barely noticeable but definitely present.

“No, I-”

“You haven’t?”

“It’s like watching a damn _car crash_ ,” muttered Dwalin, from behind them both.

"At least tell me when."

Thorin glared. 

Dwalin let out a low moan, half-amusement, half frustration. 

"It took you all week?"

Dis was laughing now, and Thorin groaned. He would later quite vehemently deny that he _ran_ for the backdoor of the shop to escape the conversation; he would remain quite adamant that he walked, at quite a reasonable pace.

(He didn’t)

 

* * *

 

 **10:17                               23/07/14**  
 **To: Frerin**  
Thorin has a hickey. Come laugh.

 **10:19                               23/07/14**  
 **From: Frerin**  
I did not need to know that. Try and poke it. Can't, busy.

 **10:21                               23/07/14**  
 **To: Frerin**  
He's locked himself in the back room. You're never busy, what are you doing?

 **10:24                               23/07/14**  
 **From: Frerin**  
The spare key is in the till. I'll tell you later

 

* * *

 

 

“Are you fucking my brother?”

Bilbo choked on his tea.

Frerin grinned at him from across Thorin’s coffee table, apparently completely unconcerned that Bilbo’s face was turning bright red and that he had temporarily lost the ability to talk.

“ _Excuse me?_ ” he managed, eventually, and, if anything, Frerin’s grin only grew.

“I was just wondering,” he said, leaning back against Thorin’s sofa, one ankle resting on the knee of his other leg, “If you and my brother are together, or not, or just… fooling around.”

Bilbo blinked.

That was a question, wasn’t it?

When he had answered the front door just a little while ago and had seen Thorin’s younger brother on the doorstep he had been a little bemused; he had seen little of Thorin’s family in the week since he had moved in, other than that first meal, and at first had stammered that Thorin was at work. Frerin’s answering smile had been practically _feral._

“Good,” he’d answered. “I’m here to talk to you, anyway.”

The day, Bilbo had thought as he had boiled the kettle, had started out strangely enough; he had woken to the sound of quiet movements from somewhere in the flat and had buried his head in his pillow as he recalled the night before. Once the glass had smashed the mood had been tempered into a lower, more restrained heat; he’d kissed Thorin in the hallway once more, neither of them having really said much more to each other, and had retreated to the room he was staying in. He had considered, for a long moment, inviting Thorin back to it, and to his bed, as well, but had discarded the thought. Too soon, too new, too strange a situation, with Bilbo staying in his house. Better to wait and see how and what their situation developed.

“ _Why?_ ” he asked, when it became clear that Frerin was not going to say anything more on the matter until he himself did.

Frerin’s smile was razor sharp, and made Bilbo shift a little in his chair, not entirely comfortable.

“Call it a highly inappropriate interest in my family’s lives,” he answered, placing his finished cup of tea on the table – unlike Bilbo, he hadn’t spilled most of it over his hands and spat half of it out in shock.

Bilbo stared at him, his head turned slightly to one side and his expression a little sceptical; as unconcerned and as relaxed as Frerin’s tone was and as joking and light-hearted as he acted, Bilbo got the impression that there was a core of something harder, some steel running up his spine; he was quite certain that Frerin would not do anything that he did not want to, and that he also would not be ready to answer with the truth on all occasions.

“Sure,” he said, keeping his tone light but distinctly firm. “But you do know that that really isn’t a decent answer, let alone a believable one?”

Frerin was watching him, his eyes shrewd, and he shrugged.

“Then don’t believe it. But you still haven’t answered my question.”

Bilbo chewed thoughtfully on his lower lip; he could of course have lied, but he could not quite see what that would achieve.

“No, I’m not.”

Frerin quirked a small smile at him, making him look oddly like Thorin for half-a-moment; the reminder of him made something twist in Bilbo’s chest.

“Does he know that you like him?”

Bilbo stared, his mouth opening just a little.

“How do you- ?”

Frerin sighed, a huff that implied that he had thought Bilbo was more intelligent than this. Bilbo wilted, just a little, in the face of that no-nonsense expression.

“Because I’m not an idiot. Does he?”

Bilbo shifted, a little awkwardly, unsure of how exactly to answer – up until last night, no doubt he could have tried to bluff it out, but he could still feel the slow beat of Thorin’s pulse against his tongue when it thought about it, could still feel the burning touch of his hands and the way his mouth had _felt,_ and it made it very difficult to pretend otherwise.

“I would assume that he does, yes, given that-”

He cut himself off.

Frerin did _not_ need to know that he had been making out with his brother in the kitchen the night before.

But Frerin noticed the sudden cut off, and his eyes narrowed, watching Bilbo’s knowingly; the faint trace of his usual, amused grin reappeared.

“Given that _what_?”

Bilbo flushed, a deep and dark blush that stained his collarbone and throat before it moved to his face proper.

_“Nothing.”_

Frerin raised an eyebrow, humming in disbelief.

“Yeah, it sure looks like nothing.”

Bilbo looked away, wondering if this was an entirely inappropriate conversation to be having with Thorin’s younger brother the first time that they met alone. He rather suspected that it wasn’t.

Frerin, opposite him, glanced up at the ceiling, before pinning Bilbo down with a long, cool look.

“Are you in love with him?”

At least he didn’t have a mouthful of tea to spit out this time; Bilbo had to make do with choking on air instead.

_“What?”_

Frerin steepled his fingers. “Because the thing is, I’m going to have to give you a shovel talk if you don’t. And to be honest, I’d rather not do that.”

Bilbo swallowed. “No… no shovel talk necessary, I think.”

Frerin’s mouth opened, just a little, in surprise; the implication of Bilbo’s words were clear, and he sat back.

“Good. That’s… that’s really good.”

Bilbo looked down at his hands, smiling.


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for another short chapter, the day has been something of a rush. I'm off to London tomorrow, so there wont be any updates until Sunday! *stares dreamily and mentally prepares myself for the Crucible* 
> 
> I'm also on tumblr: http://northerntrash.tumblr.com/

**18:02                     23/07/14**  
From: Frerin  
Had a nice chat with Bilbo today.

 **18:03                     23/07/14**  
To: Frerin  
I’ll bury you.

 **18:06                     23/07/14**  
From: Frerin  
Love you too. Congratulations, by the way.

 **18:08                     23/07/14**  
To: Frerin  
On what?

 **18:11                     23/07/14**  
From: Frerin  
On finding him. I’m glad.

 

\--

 

Thorin had spent the day alternating between pressing his fingertips to the bite at his throat and fielding teasing questions from Dwalin around the pair of them actually doing their jobs; when he wasn’t doing that, he was worrying.

He was quite good at that.

What he was worrying about was Bilbo, which probably would not have been very surprising to anyone that knew Thorin: he was not normally the kind of man who went into relationships – his normal interactions with others had been brief and lacking any real emotional connection, and he had always just assumed that he was not the kind of person that was able to forge connections with others, at least not those outside of his close circle of family, but Bilbo had proved that it was not him who was the problem, but that it was simply a matter of timing.

And it was funny, that; even though Bilbo had been the one injured, had been the one hospitalised, the longer Thorin knew him the more he began to feel whole, some empty ache he had never noticed finally filled, as if it were he that was being fixed, rather than the other way around.

Because he did care about Bilbo; he could hardly pretend otherwise.

He didn’t even want to try.

The longer the day wore on the more he began to realise that despite the warm comfort of that morning, and the ease with which Bilbo and kissed him, they had not actually talked about what had happened the night before, what it meant, what they might _be_ now that the next day was here and real life had come knocking to remind them of its existence.Bilbo had not broached the subject, and it had not occurred to him to try this morning, either; all he had thought about was kissing him, which unfortunately was often all that Thorin was able to think about whenever Bilbo was in the same room.

But he knew that he needed to work out whether or not the two of them were on the same page, if they were planning on moving in the same direction, because he wasn’t quite sure that he could stand the disappointment of trying, only to find out that they wanted different things. Thorin had no idea what Bilbo felt about him, whether there was a similar depths to his affections, whether he too had fallen-

Thorin swallowed back that thought.

Love was a dangerous word, a snake in the grass, as likely to cause pain as it was to provide joy. He wouldn’t think about that, not until he knew for certain.

Not that he was afraid, of course.

But it was worrying to consider that his feelings might have been as one-sided as their initial conversations had been; and that was a fear too, wasn’t it? Thorin had ‘known’ Bilbo, insofar as you can know a man you met whilst he was in a coma for much longer than Bilbo had known him, and whilst he had not begun to feel any emotional involvement with the man before he had woken, there had been some level of personal attachement there for much longer than there had been for Bilbo. Certainly he thought that Bilbo felt some affection for him, and he would go as far as to say that they were friends, but Bilbo might simply have been responding in gratitude, thankful for Thorin’s company and not knowing how to push him away without offending him.

He shook his head at himself.

No, he thought. That didn’t do Bilbo any justice, to think he might simply have kissed Thorin because he was too afraid to do anything else: Bilbo was a lot of things, but that was not him; he would not have shied away from expressing his displeasure at something that he didn’t want. He’d heard Bilbo rally against tests, doctors, against his physical therapy; he’d had Bilbo yell at him and scowl in displeasure and tell him to leave him alone. If he wasn’t interested, he would have just said so, clearly and firmly.

And he wouldn’t have kissed him, in the kitchen this morning, if he hadn’t wanted to do so just as much as Thorin did.

Something warm coiled in his chest, tight, making it momentarily hard to breathe. .

But still, as the day wore on the urge to get home grew, the desire to see Bilbo himself intensified, until it was a hunger gnawing inside himself. He knew quite well that it was more than just a desire to see him physically, more than the unbridled want to touch and to hold – he wanted to try and figure out where they stood with each other, wanted to make sure that things honestly would not have changed between them – at least, not for the worst.

Dwalin seemed to sense his introspection, and backed off after a little while, leaving him be with his thoughts, though on occasion he did catch Thorin’s eye and glance obviously down to his neck, making him shift awkwardly, sending hot glares back in return. He did not take Dwalin’s teasing to heart, just as he had not truly been bothered by Dis’, other than the mortification of family members knowing about your private life – they were a close knit family, and this kind of teasing had become common between them since they had all grown up.

Still, he considered hiding the mark on his throat for a moment, before dismissing the idea almost immediately. He _liked_ that it was visible. There was something gratifying about being so thoroughly marked, at least by Bilbo.

He would quite like an opportunity to reciprocate.

The afternoon dragged past, and as the evening drew in and he got ready to shut up the shop, his phone vibrated, bringing the news that someone had already been talking to Bilbo, before he had even had the chance: Frerin.

“Damn it,” he muttered to himself, as he locked up, and strode towards his car. “Damn it to hell.”

He knew Frerin meant well; honestly, he did. There was no bad bone in his brother’s body, and he would never want to do more than poke teasingly at his brother’s nerves, but Bilbo didn’t know that, didn’t know him well enough to understand that his often cruel sense of humour was never meant with any real spite or malice.

He was convinced he might have broken at least three speed limits and driven through two red lights going home, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to slow down; there was an urgency thrumming through his veins, the beat of his pulse at his temple urging him on, driving him to press at the accelerator to _get home_. He slammed the door of his car shut when he pulled up and parked, the sun low and blinding in the sky outside of his apartment building, and strode impatiently to the door.

Bilbo rose to his feet as Thorin made it through into the living, mouth half open in greeting, but Thorin cut across before he had a chance to say anything.

“I’m so sorry about my brother.”

Bilbo shrugged, and smiled, and he honestly did not seem too rattled, too shaken; Thorin felt himself begin to relax in relief.

“I’ve had worse.”

He stretched, scrubbing a hand across his hair, and Thorin’s urgency flickered into something else as he watched the line of Bilbo’s body tense as he stretched. Bilbo licked his lower lip, slowly and unselfconsciously, and Thorin watched the flicker of his tongue, unable to look anywhere else.

“Good day?” Bilbo asked, his voice warm and low.

He nodded, absentmindedly, and took a step closer. There were things… things he was supposed to be asking, but Bilbo’s eyes had caught his, his mind was slowly unravelling, and he was losing track of his thoughts, and now Bilbo was shifting too, a tiny step forward, and there was a flush about his throat, he could see it through the open v of his collar, and-

The noise he made might have been closer to a growl than anything else, but he couldn’t bring himself to care one way or another; he strode the few short steps it would take him to cross the room, and Bilbo was already moving towards him, their bodies meeting as their mouths did, kissing with the same heat that they had done last night, pressing close; Thorin felt unsteady for just a moment as Bilbo moaned into his mouth, up on his tip-toes, hands clutching at Thorin’s shoulders, and then he was falling back against the sofa, trusting that it was where he thought it was, pulling Bilbo down on top of him.

The smaller man landed heavily on his chest, hands immediately bracketing Thorin’s ribs so that he could lift himself up slightly, off him; Thorin’s hands found the waistband of his trousers, untucking his shirt roughly, his hands sliding up to find skin, to touch skin, to press close.

Bilbo kissed him as if he were drowning, and Thorin wondered for a moment if it might kill him.

One of them pulled back to breath, and Thorin couldn’t quite tell who it had been; he pressed open-mouthed kisses along the line of Bilbo’s throat, rolling Bilbo gently off him so they lay next to each other, on their sides, only just fitting in; he sucked a mark on Bilbo’s throat, just at the curve of the underside of his chin, feeling a thrill of pleasure at being able to reciprocate the mark.

Then Bilbo was nosing at his hair, pressing sweet, tender touches to his face, and Thorin gentled his bite, letting go after a little while with a soft noise of satisfaction, reaching to cradle Bilbo’s face; it was a little awkward to do so, in space as cramped as this, but he did not let it stop him.

“I think,” Bilbo said, breathless, nuzzling against Thorin’s hands as they roamed about his face and hair, stroking, pressing gently. “I think that was the nicest kiss I’ve ever had.”

“I _think,_ ” Thorin began, meaning to make some light-hearted joke, to tease. “I think that I really want to _be_ with you.”

His body froze underneath Bilbo’s as his mind processed what exactly he had unintentionally said; months of self-restraint had broken down since the moment he had walked into the kitchen last night, and the thoughts that had been plaguing him all day had slipped out without concern for Thorin’s fears or for his self-restraint, without worrying about the traps of reciprocation and requited feelings. He’d simply _asked,_ and for a moment it scared him, but then he felt a great weight shift somewhere in him, and he remembered that sometimes that really was the easiest path to take.

Bilbo kissed him, quick and light, and his eyes were bright and full of too much, too much for Thorin to look at; he averted his eyes, staring up at the ceiling, afraid of what the response to that might have been, but at the same time unwilling to move away even a little.

“Hey,” Bilbo said, quietly. “Hey, look at me.”

Thorin didn’t; Thorin couldn’t.

Bilbo took his chin, and pulled his gaze back.

“I’ve been half in love with you since you smuggled pizza into my room,” he said, his voice low, full of heat, full of _honestly._ “And I think I’ve wondered what it would be like to kiss you since the moment I first saw you, standing in my hospital doorway.”

Thorin blinked, a small smile curling across his face.

“Since you first saw me?” he asked, and Bilbo laughed.

“Well, maybe the second time,” he admitted, “once I’d stopped yelling at you.”

And then he kissed Thorin again, because, really, why shouldn’t he?

 

\--

 **18:11                     23/07/14**  
From: Frerin  
On finding him. I’m glad.

 **19:54                     23/07/14**  
To: Frerin  
Yeah. Me too.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, as much as I appreciate that you've read my work, coming back from a lovely break in London to a number of reviews telling me you dislike my characterisation of Thorin's family is just about the most demoralising thing I could possibly have seen. It ISN'T constructive criticism, and I'm not changing the fic just because you don't like it: sorry, but I can't go back and re-write 26 chapters to make you happy. Those kind of comments just makes it very difficult to write. I subscribe very thoroughly to the adage that if you haven't got anything nice to say, then say nothing at all. 
> 
> Otherwise, thanks all for your well-wishes about London - it was a great trip, the weather remained fantastic (shockingly), and The Crucible was phenomenal: I couldn't be happier. :)

They still hadn’t – really – talked about it. Bilbo couldn’t quite work out whether or not that was a problem.

It certainly wasn’t the most conventional way for two people to start up a relationship, of course, but then he supposed that that was no condemnation of their success; he liked Thorin, felt much stronger about him than that phrase really expressed, and whilst he was quite happy with how things had begun, he couldn’t quite help but want something a little more formal, something a little more _concrete._

Bilbo was on his feet as Thorin came through the door from work, darting out of the living room and into the hall before the man even had a chance to call out a greeting.

“Do you have any plans tonight?”

Thorin blinked, and ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead. Bilbo felt a little guilty at springing out at him; he looked a little tired, his shoulders a little slumped, and there was a smudge of pencil lead across one cheek, as if he had rubbed thoughtlessly at his face without realising he had been leaning on his drawings.

But Thorin just shrugged, and offered Bilbo a warm look, something around his eyes relaxing as he kicked his shoes off in the hallway, propping himself up against the wall as he did so.

“No, why?”

Bilbo nodded, chewing on his lower lip for a moment as Thorin stretched, his eyes drawn to the thin line of stomach that the action revealed as his t-shirt pulled up, just a little. There was the dark brush of hair, the line of his waistband, and Bilbo had to drag his eyes away quite quickly before he got entirely distracted considering what there was underneath these clothes that he still had not seen.

“Good. Would you mind getting changed?”

Thorin’s head moved, just a little, as if in surprise; he took a half-step towards Bilbo before nodding, a small and reserved gesture, though his face was pulled into a frown.

“O- okay?”

“It doesn’t have to be too smart, or anything.”

Thorin just nodded again, and Bilbo ducked back into the living room as Thorin padded away to his bedroom. He pulled awkwardly at his shirt as he heard the shower start up, and found himself smiling down at his buttons, tugging on them. His button-down shirt (the only smart one that had found its way into the bag that had made its way to Thorin’s house with him) felt suddenly a little too formal, but he quietened his nerves, and sat down, staring at the wall as he listened to the muted noise of the shower and tried to resist the urge just to go and join Thorin.

He was starting to get a little _too_ distracted at the thought of what Thorin looked like without any clothes on; he’d seen his chest, and he was rather interested at the thought of exploring it and Thorin’s tattoo with his mouth a little more thoroughly, but he tried to put it out of his mind.

He was pretty sure that he would get to see the rest of it soon enough.

After a little while Thorin came back in, in dark jeans and his own button-down shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows and hanging open over a dark t-shirt, looking almost nervous as he once more ran a hand through his hair, a little damp around the temples from his shower now. The smudge was gone, and Bilbo almost regretted missing his chance to reach up and wipe it away himself.

Thorin looked at him, questioningly, and Bilbo nodded, smiling.

“There, perfect.”

Thorin’s smiled, just a little, the corners of his eyes wrinkling as Bilbo once more looked him up and down, quite convinced that there was a flush of red about his throat.

“Perfect?”

Bilbo hummed in agreement, and Thorin glanced quickly down at the floor.

It was too endearing, that unspoken awkwardness, and Bilbo got to his feet, closing the distance quickly between them. He pulled at one side of Thorin’s open shirt gently, looking up at him.

“Perfect.”

He pushed up, not having to reach quite as far as he normally would with Thorin looking down, and pressed a kiss against his mouth; it was supposed to be brief, but Thorin chased him as he backed away, one hand resting lightly against Bilbo’s hip as he pressed gentle kisses, over and over again, against Bilbo’s mouth. Bilbo’s hand cradled his jaw, one thumb stroking over the long stubble, brushing their noses together as Thorin pulled his lower lip between his own, rolling it with a careful tenderness before grazing his teeth, just lightly, over it.

Bilbo was a little concerned that his knees might melt, but Thorin straightened out before their kiss could go any deeper.

“Welcome home, by the way,” Bilbo mumbled, a little breathless.

“Thanks,” said Thorin. _I like coming home to you,_ his unspoken words felt almost tangible in the air, hovering between them.

“C’mon then,” Bilbo said, wavering on his heels for a moment before starting towards the front door. “Did you have a good day?”

Thorin nodded, and followed him out, locking the door behind him. He unlocked the car with the wireless fob, but Bilbo just shook his head.

“We’re walking,” he told Thorin, who glanced at him, a little surprised, before re-locking the car.

They made their way down the street in a comfortable silence, and Bilbo shot a couple of slightly confused glances up at the taller man, a little bemused by Thorin’s lack of questioning.

“Are you not going to ask where we are going?”

The corner of Thorin’s mouth twitched upwards, for just a moment, and he shook his head.

“I wasn’t going to.”

He sent Bilbo a look that spoke volumes of his amusement, and Bilbo realised with a start that Thorin was teasing him, deliberately not asking because he could see how much Bilbo _wanted_ to tell him, and wanted Thorin to _ask._ His eyes narrowed, but he couldn’t quite stop himself from smiling at the same time.

“You…”

The tip of Thorin’s tongue wetted his lower lip, and Bilbo was once more distracted by the sight; he shook his head when he realised what Thorin was doing, and he pulled a fake-scowl to himself, huffing unconvincingly.

“Fine. I won’t tell you then.”

Thorin smiled properly then, a wide and brief grin with a flash of teeth that warmed Bilbo’s chest and made it quite suddenly difficult to breathe, his chest tightening. Thorin shrugged his shoulders, a small huff of a laugh escaping from him, and he nudged Bilbo’s shoulder with his arm, lightly.

“Go on, where are we going?”

Bilbo smiled down at the pavement.

“We’re going on a date.”

“A date?”

Bilbo looked up at him, his eyes crinkling as he saw Thorin’s genuine bemusement, at the news. His voice would have betrayed that surprise even if his expression had not, though he also did not sound unhappy with the thought.

“Our _first_ date,” Bilbo confirmed, moving just a little closer as they turned the corner, heading down to the broad and sluggish expanse of the river that cut right through the city, dissecting it with its languid pace.

“Our first date?” Thorin still sounded confused.

“Yes, Thorin. We haven’t had one yet.”

Bilbo was still smiling, just a little, and now it was his turn to nudge Thorin, a little teasingly, and when he responded, after just a moment of silence, he sounded confused, and almost a little apologetic.

“I… didn’t know that we needed one.”

Bilbo almost felt a little guilty, then; Thorin sounded genuinely regretful, as if the thought had just never occurred to him and now he was afraid he had upset Bilbo in some way, let him down. The thought made that same warm affection curl up in Bilbo’s chest, like a contented and purring cat, the knowledge that he was that important to Thorin, that upsetting him was something that would bother him so much, settling like a balm over any insecurities he might have had.

“We don’t,” he said quietly, catching Thorin’s wrist and running the pad of his thumb over the inside of his wrist, quickly and gently. “But it is nice to have one, right?”

Thorin nodded. “I suppose.”

Bilbo paused as they passed a bank of grass between the pavement and the road, where several trees had grown, having spread from the nearby gardens; this one was an apple tree, blooming now in preparation for a heavy autumn load, and Bilbo reached up, pulling a spray of the flowers off.

He turned the flowers between his fingers for a moment, before looking at Thorin.

“Here.”

Thorin raised his eyebrows, but didn’t flinch away as Bilbo reached to tuck it behind Thorin’s ear, smoothing his dark hair back to better show off the peach-white petals. He took the opportunity to run his fingertips down Thorin’s throat, just briefly, unable to resist the fact that he could just reach out and touch.

“Really?” Thorin asked, and his voice was unimpressed, though not cold.

Bilbo grinned.

“I promise I won’t tell anyone. Not even Dwalin.”

Thorin huffed, but he didn’t reach to take the flowers off, to throw them away; they remained tucked behind his ear, for all that he didn’t look particularly amused.

“I’ll hold you to that.”

Bilbo looked down at the ground, not able to hide his wide and pleased smile.

“So, what do these mean, then?”

It took Bilbo a moment to understand what exactly Thorin meant; when he did he chewed on his lip, even as he continued to smile.

“Apple blossoms? They mean a lot of things. They can mean good health, and admiration, or beauty; they mean happiness and love, too.”

Thorin didn’t say anything; he just nodded, and caught Bilbo’s fingers with his, hooking them with his own and squeezing just a little, gently, in reply.

They said little else as they walked the last few minutes to the restaurant that Bilbo had already chosen in his mind, a small and quiet Italian place down on the riverfront that overlooked the water: he shot Thorin a quick, questioning glance as they turned off the pavement towards it, as if asking whether or not it was alright.

“Have you been here before?”

Thorin shook his head, but seemed happy with the choice. He took a half-step in front of Bilbo, opening the door, but didn’t stand to hold it open for him, for which Bilbo was very grateful: that kind of action, whilst nice, was also a little embarrassing. Though Thorin walked through first, he also half-turned to keep the door open for Bilbo as he followed, which was quite sweet enough.

“No? Ah, it’s my favourite. My house is only about a fifteen minute walk along the river – up that way.”

“Not that far, then,” Thorin answered, as a waiter caught sight of them. _Not too far from my flat, and from me,_ remained unspoken between the two of them, and Bilbo shot him a fond look.  

“Not that far at all.”

“Have you…” Thorin tailed off, as if unsure how to ask, but Bilbo understood what he was trying to say, and shook his head, but the waiter came over before he could answer.

“Table for two?”

Thorin nodded, and they trailed after him across the small place.

“Inside, or out?”

Bilbo glanced questioningly up at Thorin.

“Out?”

Thorin nodded his agreement, and the waiter sent them an amused glance, although what was so funny was not immediately obvious. The small terrace outside was almost empty, and they sat right at the far end, closest to the water; it wasn’t dark out yet, not by far, but the lights of the inner city across the river were already on, reflecting on the water. Bilbo smiled out at the view as he took his seat, snagging the wine menu from the middle of the table, and resumed their previous conversation.

“No, no news yet. Gandalf said everything is going well, though – another week or two and I should have a date for when they have to leave my house.”

Thorin nodded, glancing out at the water; the evening was warm, and Bilbo watched as a light breeze played with the hair pushed back from his face, picking up dark-and-silver strands and dropping them again.

“And then…”

Bilbo shot him a brief, warm look.

“Yeah, then I’ll be out of your way.”

Thorin’s knees pressed against his under the small table, and he caught Bilbo’s eyes with a gaze that was firm, a little intense in its honesty.

“You’re not in my way.”

Bilbo tapped the wine menu with his fingers, his head turning to one side.

“You’re very sweet, you know.”

Thorin grabbed for another menu, busying himself in studying the appetizers rather than answering, but Bilbo could still see the sudden and faint (but definitely still present) flush about his ears.

Dinner was a comfortable affair, the food good and the wine better; Bilbo fed Thorin a bite of his ravioli without even thinking about it, only realising the intimacy of the gesture as he saw how Thorin’s eyes widened in surprise – the taller man took the bite almost a little tentatively, averting his eyes, and for a moment Bilbo had thought it was a little too much, but then Thorin’s knees had pressed against his again, a quick and affection touch, and he felt reassured.

They shared a dessert, and though it came with two forks, most of what Thorin had was from Bilbo’s; he held Bilbo’s gaze as he took the chocolate cake until the smaller man was so flushed that he had to look down at the table.

Bilbo kissed him, quickly and lightly on the corner of the mouth, as they stood to leave again, ducking his head a little as he pulled away.

“Thank you,” he said, smiling, and Thorin frowned.

“You paid,” he replied, a little confused, for Bilbo had insisted on taking the bill himself.

Bilbo shrugged, and shot him a warm look.

“Not for that,” he answered, a little ambiguously, as they left and began to walk home again.

It was a quiet and reserved walk home, and Bilbo realised as they passed the apple tree again that the flower was still tucked behind his ear, wilting a little now in the low warmth of the evening; he reached up and pulled it out, flicking it away, and laughed at Thorin's surprised look. 

"I forgot about it," the taller man admitted, taking Bilbo's hand again. 

Bilbo wondered if he had ever really smiled so often in his life; his face was almost starting to ache from the strain of it. 

Thorin paused by his car as they reached the flat again, and rubbed at the back of his neck awkwardly.

“I… um. Got you something, today.”

Bilbo stared at him, his head turning slightly to one side as Thorin opened the car, using the excuse of ducking his head in to avoid meeting his eye.

“You didn’t need to do that.”

Bilbo watched the lines of Thorin’s back, bent over as he reached for something in the foot-well of the passenger seat of the car. He couldn’t quite resist reaching over, and running his hand along the hard plane of the muscles of his back, one long stroke up the length: Thorin stilled for a moment under the touch, before pulling back out of the car, a brown paper bag in his hands.

His eyes were dark as they caught Bilbo’s eyes, and he took Bilbo’s chin in his other hand, running his thumb over the soft protrusion of Bilbo’s lower lip.

“Careful,” he said, quietly.

Bilbo pulled his lower lip between his teeth, grazing momentarily against Thorin's thumb, watching how Thorin’s eyes flickered down to it; the taller man inhaled deeply, audibly, before pushing the bag into Bilbo’s hands.

“Stop,” he said, a little roughly, but Bilbo could see the smile in the dying light.

Thorin dropped his hand, and pressed the gift into Bilbo's, backing away a little and turning up the front path to the door.

Bilbo peeked into the bag.

He wondered if it was possible for him to physically _melt._

“Thorin,” he said, as he followed the taller man up to the front door, rubbing the velvet-softness of a petal between his fingertips. “ _Thorin_.”

“I’ve not got you flowers in a while,” Thorin admitted, quietly, as he unlocked the door. “And I know my flat is… lacking, in terms of plants.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Bilbo said, his voice a little hoarse, a little emotional. “Utterly _ridiculous._ Thank you.”

Thorin rubbed at his nose as the door opened, and he stepped inside.

“I don’t know what they mean,” he said, though it was a dry kind of humour, as if he really did enjoy Bilbo telling him these things, for all that sometimes he had rolled his eyes when Bilbo was in the hospital and had explained bouquets to him.

“They're azaleas," he answered, pulling the pot fully out of the bag and examining the delicate pink-and-white fade of the flowers, the dark and healthy green of the leaves.

"They can mean temperance,” he said, quietly. “Or to take care.”

Bilbo placed the potted plant on the side table in the hallway with a careful reverence as he turned back to Thorin, who was locking the door behind them.

“Or else,” he said, quietly, as took hold of Thorin’s shirt and pulled him down, “they can mean passion.”

He kissed Thorin, then, because there was no way that he was able to do otherwise.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are wonderful; if I could send you all cupcakes I would. I hope you can settle for a happy afternoon at the park instead.

“Kiss me,” Bilbo said, quickly, as the car pulled up to the kerb. “Kiss me for luck.”

Thorin raised an eyebrow at him, but there was amusement in his gaze. He picked up Bilbo’s hand and brought it to his mouth, pressing a long, open-mouthed kiss against the back of it; Bilbo shivered a little at that, but pulled his face into a frown.

“Why do you need luck?”

Bilbo ignored that question, huffing still.

“I meant a real kiss.”

Thorin rolled his eyes.

“That _was_ a real kiss.”

Bilbo nudged him, reaching over to grab hold of Thorin’s ear, guiding him over. He pressed his mouth to the soft skin underneath said ear, then again to the scruff of his jaw, and once more to his mouth. Thorin let out a low, noise at that, not quite a moan but close to it, one hand reaching to tangle in Bilbo’s hair, slowly growing back into its loose curls now.

Bilbo was just considering pressing closer, deeper, but a harsh rap on the roof of the car made them start apart, sudden and surprised.

Dwalin was grinning at them from outside the car, half-laughing at their surprise.

“Get a room!” he yelled through the glass, and Thorin half-groaned in frustration.

“Sorry,” said Bilbo, though he didn’t sound particularly repentant. “But that was why I needed luck.”

 

\--

 

Thorin seemed to have taken something of a shine to the riverside, though he had been a little embarrassed to admit over their dinner a few nights ago to admit that he had spent very little time there, despite the proximity of his flat to it. When he had suggested to Dis over dinner at her house (an occasion that was becoming less and less stressful for Bilbo with each passing time) that they take Fili down to the long park that stretched along a part of the waterfront, she had looked at him a little oddly before her eyes had flickered to Bilbo and her face had gentled into a warm, amused smile.

She obviously understood who had prompted this change in Thorin’s interests, and quite clearly approved.

Bofur had informed Bilbo just the day before that he was overexerting himself, which was what had caused Thorin to insist on driving them rather than walking the twenty minutes to the park gates; he would have protested at the fuss, but Thorin _was_ trying his hardest to be restrained most of the time, though it was clearly still an effort for him, and his lower back and thighs _were_ aching a little.

Fili seemed more than excited to be there with his uncles, and enlisted Thorin immediately to help him climb the trees, delighting in getting as high as he could before one of his mothers or uncles noticed and started fretting.

Kili was sat quite contentedly for the most part on the wide rugs they had thrown down in the shade of one leafy oak, although whenever he caught sight of his brother he did his best to escape to follow him, pulling himself up on whichever person was closest and calling out an excited and annoyed noise after the other boy, though every time he tried to take a step he would fall back over again with a little huff of exasperation.

“He’ll be walking soon,” said Bilbo with a smile, trying to surreptitiously rub at the cramp in the back of his thigh without anyone noticing.

Vivi grinned.

“And then we’ll have two to chase after, and we’ll be enlisting every person we know as a babysitter.”

Bilbo smiled, holding out a hand for Kili to grab a hold of. The little boy pulled himself up unsteadily once more.

“I volunteer as tribute,” he joked as the baby fell back onto his bum, and crawled over to Bilbo instead, grabbing hold of his shirt and trying to get into his lap. Bilbo picked him up and put him in place, and Kili immediately nuzzled into his chest, yawning.

“I’ll agree to that,” Vivi said, and nudged Dis. “C’mon, let’s go grab lunch from the car, huh? Bilbo, do you mind watching Kee for a little while?”

He nodded his head, smiling down at the infant, who was burrowing into the soft cotton of Bilbo’s shirt now, his little hands grabbing unapologetically at the fabric.

“C’mon you,” she said to Dwalin as well, slapping his thich as she stood. “Come carry a cooler, you lug.”

Bilbo was left alone on the blankets with the babe as the two went to fetch the packed picnic, idly watching as Thorin was dragged along by his wrist in the direction of what would no doubt prove to be a particularly interesting pond.

Bilbo smiled a little as, a little away, Thorin got down on his knees beside Fili, as the younger boy pointed at something in the water.

But that still left one Durin unaccounted for, he realised, glancing around only to see Frerin hanging up his mobile phone and catching his eye, padding over to him through the long, soft grass. Bilbo had warm memories of this park: he’d been here often when he was young. It was neither the manicured, clipped lawns of some nor the tarmacked playgrounds of others; instead it was long, wild growing grass meadows, flecked with the colour of wildflowers here and there, inter-spaced with dappled trees and small pathways, hidden grottoes and overgrown ponds, laid out in no particular order whatsoever, so that a small child might come across unexpected delights when playing. The river ran its sluggish course nearby, and the traffic of the city was nothing but a dull distant noise, almost imperceptible around the noise of birds and the sound of the breeze.

“Are you alright?” Bilbo asked, as Frerin sat down beside him with something of an annoyed noise, reaching over to run a careful finger along Kili’s arm.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he said, and though his tone was light there was a flicker of something in his eyes, something that Bilbo might not have noticed had it not been for how he was learning to read Thorin, whose emotions ran rampantly visible nowhere except in his gaze and the subtle line of his jaw.

“Mmhmm,” Bilbo said, rocking Kili gently. “Sure.”

Frerin smiled, looking down at the ground, rubbing at his forehead with the heel of his hand.

“Work?” Bilbo asked, nodding down at Frerin’s phone, still in grip.

Frerin answered with a shrug, and the action was so familiar, so reminiscent of Thorin, that Bilbo couldn’t help but smile down at his knees.

“Thorin said you dealt in stocks?”

Frerin wrinkled his nose.

“Don’t say that, it sounds so _boring,_ “ he replied, his voice a little petulant despite his age. “And no, it wasn’t work.”

Bilbo tried to temper his glee.

“Girlfriend?” he asked, with a sly smile, and Frerin rubbed at his nose. “Oh come on,” Bilbo continued, as Kili’s eyes flickered shut. “You poke in my love life, I can poke in yours, don’t be a hypocrite.”

Frerin was looking amused despite himself, and after a moment he couldn’t stop himself from grinning.

“Alright, yes, but don’t tell Thorin,” he said, huffing.

Bilbo did laugh then.

“You bloody hypocrite,” he said, and his voice was loud enough that Thorin glanced over at them, clearly making sure that they were alright. He frowned a little as he saw Bilbo laughing at Frerin, but then Fili was pulling at his sleeve, distracting him again.

“I’m a younger brother,” replied Frerin self-righteously. “It’s my _job_ to be obnoxious. And a hypocrite.”

“And you do both very well,” grinned Bilbo in reply. “Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me, but don’t you think for even a minute that I won’t humiliate you the moment you bring her over for us all to meet.”

He realised what he had said then, and was about to correct the assumption that he _would_ be present for a family introduction, because that rather was presumptuous of him, but Frerin was grinning still, and had clearly not been offended.

“Urgh, Thorin’ll be happy to help, I’m sure,” he answered, the smile being suddenly replaced by a frown as he glanced over at his brother. “He’s _still_ pissy about the other week.”

Bilbo nodded, at little unsure about what, exactly, Frerin was talking about. “Okay?”

Frerin glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, but he did not look ashamed of himself.

“He doesn’t like it when I interfere.”

Bilbo caught on, then, realised that Frerin was talking about their previous conversation, and laughed to himself.

“I wonder why?” And was that a blush, just faint and pink, across Frerin’s nose? He was rather certain that it was. “Besides, I don’t think he’s that angry at you- he hasn’t said anything to me, at any rate.”

Frerin shrugged, stretching out his legs and leaning back on his hands.

“Nah, I know, he won’t be that annoyed really. He’s never been good at holding a grudge, and besides, he’d have done the same thing to me, I think.”

Bilbo raised his eyebrows.

“You think?”

Frerin shrugged again.

“Well, you know Thorin.”

He didn't elaborate any more, but the uncertainty in his eyes was obvious: he didn't  _know_ how Thorin felt about him.

Bilbo looked down at Kili, who was quite clearly asleep, wondering if he should be letting the infant sleep, or whether or not it would completely ruin his schedule for the day. He rocked his arms gently, and made up his mind to do nothing until his mothers returned.

“He understands that you’re protective of him, I think,” he answered after a long pause, his voice quiet. “Even if he doesn’t really understand why. I do, though.” Bilbo paused, and then smiled down at his feet, and at the grass beyond. “I feel a little protective of him, as well, you know. But if you think he isn’t protective of _you_ , then you’re dafter than you look.”

“I suppose,” Frerin replied, suddenly looking awfully young. Bilbo found himself feeling almost as fond of him as he already was of Thorin’s nephews, and he had to remind himself that though Frerin could be a pain, and sometimes overstepped the line, his family were quite clearly his highest priority: he had lost his parents young, and Thorin, for all the love that was held in his strong heart, was not the most vocal with his feelings.

No wonder he looked a little unsure.

A little away from them, Fili burst into laughter, reaching out across the water quite suddenly, wavering on the edge.

“C’mon,” said Bilbo, pulling up a small weed that had grown near the edge of the blanket with one hand, and shredding the leaves absentmindedly. “You see – right there. The way he’s looking at Fili, right now, all angry and huffy looking, like he’s about to yell at him? But you know he’s really just worried that Fili’s going to fall in the water?”

Frerin nodded.

“That’s the way he looks at Dis, when she looks tired, and it’s the way he looked at Vivi when we were walking in and that guy cat-called her. And it’s the way he looks at you, whenever you stretch and wince, when you pull your surgical scars, I guess.”

Frerin rubbed at the back of his head, awkwardly.

Bilbo watched him carefully out of the corner of his eye, and shrugged after a moment.

“I guess it is hard for you to see the things that are right in front of you, sometimes,” he said after a long pause, his voice low and quiet. Kili made a small mumbling noise in Bilbo’s arms, shifting a little, his legs kicking out, and Bilbo stared down at him fondly.

He swore that he could already see Thorin in the young boy, though as Dis and Thorin looked similar it really wasn’t that surprising.

“You know him pretty well, huh.” Frerin said, as he flopped back on his back, not giving any indication that he had heard what Bilbo had said about him. “Better than a lot of people do, you know.”

Bilbo shrugged; there was very little he could say to that. Frerin just gave him a small, assessing gaze, the brief moment of vulnerability gone, and once again Bilbo was struck with the similarity between Thorin and Frerin, realising that it went so much deeper than simply physical appearance. For all that Frerin was more light-hearted than Thorin, more outgoing and prone to joking, there was that same vulnerability there, that same hardness thrown up to keep people out. Dis didn’t have it, and Bilbo wondered at that; perhaps it had appeared, for the brothers, when their parents had died, and Dis had simply been too young for it to affect her in the same way, or else she was just a very different person to Thorin and Frerin.

The pair of brothers both kept people at arm’s length, but in different ways: Thorin with a brusque indifference and Frerin with a carefully crafted humour, bordering at times on the acerbic, one that never let people get close.

It was only as time went on that Bilbo was beginning to realise how much freer Thorin was with him, how much more of himself he was willing to let Bilbo see.

Fili jumped up from the pond, dashing over towards them, something held in his hands, and behind him Thorin levered himself to his feet, wiping a hand across his face; the sky was a washed out blue, the sun’s heat beating down, and Thorin’s eyes followed Fili has he darted through the wildflowers. He threw himself down on the rugs between Frerin’s legs, grinning that wide, toothy grin that only children ever seem to have, absurdly happy with the world.

“Uncle Frerin! Look! I caught a frog!”

Frerin _beamed,_ sitting upright again immediately.

“That’s _amazing,_ ” he crowed. “Show me this instant!”

The small, bulbous frog was sat unmoving in Fili’s hands, watching proceedings with a baleful and unimpressed gaze, only occasionally blinking. He made a low, long croak as Frerin reached out and stroked his back.

“He’s awesome,” he told his nephew quite seriously. “But it’s very hot today. Shall we go and put him back?”

Fili looked down at the frog, looking a little upset, but still nodded, and Frerin got to his feet just as Thorin reached them. He nodded at his older brother, before punching him gently on the arm, and padding away after his nephew. Thorin looked a little confused as he sat down next to Bilbo.

“Alright?” he asked, and Bilbo smiled.

“Never better.”

Thorin looked as if he were biting back a question as he glanced quickly down at Bilbo’s arms, but he managed to nod without looking too pained. Bilbo leant back, just a little, against Thorin’s arm, waiting for some kind of permission, and with a soft noise of surprise the taller man shifted just a little closer. He was leaning back on his hands, his legs stretched out, and now he moved the hand closest to Bilbo around his back, bracketing him with the arm without explicitly wrapping it around him.

Bilbo leant back, against the side of Thorin’s chest, tucking himself in despite the heat of the day. His head fell against Thorin’s shoulder, and didn’t move even when Frerin returned, rolling his eyes at the pair of them.

“Get a room,” he told them, mimicking Dwalin’s tone from earlier, and Fili looked up at his uncle, confused.

“We’re in the park,” he told Frerin solemnly, as if he thought his Uncle was stupid. “There aren’t any rooms here.”

Frerin seemed rather lost for words at that, and Thorin smirked.

“Out-smarted by a five-year-old,” he said, amused. “Well done, little brother.”

Fili sat down next to Bilbo, half-leaning on the man as he leant over to pick a wildflower from the grass.

“Here you go!” he said, grinning, as he offered it to Bilbo. “Uncle Frerin said I should give you another one!”

Fili had clearly not been supposed to repeat that part of the plan, and with a huff Frerin made for the park gates.

“I’m going to see where that picnic is,” he said, a little gruff, and now it definitely _was_ a blush.

Bilbo smiled after him, taking the flower from Fili and tucking it behind his ear.

“Thank you, Fili,” he said. “You keep giving me these flowers and I might just have to hug you for it.”

Fili positively glowed, and threw his arms around Bilbo, jostling Kili in the process, whose face scrunched up in displeasure.

“Sorry Kee,” he whispered, pressing a messy kiss onto his brother’s face, but he didn’t remove himself from Bilbo.

The rest of the family returned with nowhere near enough food to warrant four people carrying it all, but somehow they still managed to complain when they saw that Thorin and Bilbo were stretched out in the shade. It was clearly all meant in good humour, though, and Bilbo accepted a bottle of water and a sandwich with a grin once the two boys were extracted from him.

“Thank you,” said Bilbo to Vivi, who had passed them to him, before offering a small smile around to the group as a whole. “And thank you all, for having me along today. I've not done anything like this since I was a kid. It really is lovely.”

Dis smiled at him, and Fili sent him a broad, gap-toothed grin around the straw from his juice carton, but it was his uncle that replied to Bilbo.

“Don’t be stupid,” Frerin said around a mouthful of food, and though his tone might have sounded a little harsh Bilbo was starting to see past it. “You’re practically family.”

Thorin, from beside him, made a small, surprised noise, but it wasn’t a displeased one; Frerin grinned at his older brother, rakish and offhand, but Bilbo suspected that there was rather more to the smile than that. He felt suddenly satisfied, as if he had passed some unknown test, as if his box had finally been ticked in approval.

After a heartbeat Thorin nodded back at his brother, and his eyes were warm as he reached over and ruffled Fili’s hair.

“Thanks,” said Bilbo, his voice quiet. “I don’t mind that, if you’ll have me.”

Thorin’s hand found his, and though Dwalin rolled his eyes at the sight, there was a fondness in his gaze. Bilbo took Thorin’s hand, quite firmly, and did not let it go for quite some time.


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, sorry, new version of this chapter because I don't think I quite managed what I was aiming for. Hopefully you guys'll like this one a little more? Let me know if I improved it (or just made it worse :P)

The days continued to pass with a heavy summer lethargy, each afternoon creeping into the cooler evenings with slow deliberation, the dark of evening almost fading into existence, the light bleeding out of the sky in warm greys and oranges. They had several more days of thunderstorms, briefly dispelling the heavy heat of the summer before it returned again in full force, leaving Bilbo padding around Thorin’s flat, uncomfortably warm.

It was on one day such as this, after the heat of the afternoon had finally passed and the sun was low, when the swifts were wheeling through the evening sky above Thorin’s garden, that inspiration hit him.

Inspiration to _write._

He took his laptop into the garden and settled down on one of the old sun loungers, a notebook balanced on the arm and his father’s fountain pen behind his ear, and settled in.

It felt rather _wonderful_ to be writing again, it having been so long since he had – nearly a year, he realised with a start, between the accident and the coma and his recovery. His publishers had told him to take as much time as was needed before he returned to writing (though he rather suspected that their patience might run thin after a little while), and he had no desire to set down anything too ambitious, but a short novella was wreaking havoc in his mind, demanding to be let out, and he was only too willing to oblige it.

The keys on his laptop felt a little strange a first, but soon enough he found himself settling back into the swing of it, the birds his only audience.

He hadn’t realised it before, but going back to writing – even if it was only to draft a short story that would probably never see the light of day again – made him feel more like himself, filled up an empty space inside of him with an easy contentment. He’d _missed_ writing, missed sitting down at his desk and looking over his garden and settling in to a day’s work.

He missed having something to do.

He missed his old life, for all that he realised now that it had been a little empty.

He missed his _home._

But if, for the meantime, writing managed to restore just a little of that comfort, then he supposed that it would have to do

 

\--

 

When Thorin returned from work several hours later he was surprised when he did not hear the welcoming call that he had begun to look forward to echo through the apartment; whether it came from the garden or the living room, the bedroom or the kitchen, he was used now to it coming, and he found himself padding through to the kitchen quietly, almost as if he were afraid to make noise.

He caught sight of Bilbo as he was pouring himself a glass of water in the kitchen, from the window; the sun had almost ducked behind the nearby houses, but he was typing away, his forehead creased, and Thorin wondered how long he had been sat out there, whether or not he knew how much time had passed.

The bridge of nose was beginning to pinken under the sunlight, not quite burning but perhaps a little close to it, and he found himself smiling, just a little, at the sight of it.

He could of course have gone outside, and stirred Bilbo, but it seemed almost cruel to do so; there was something light dancing around his features despite his frown, some pleasure that flickered across his features that swayed Thorin’s hand from rapping at the window. Instead he found a pizza menu, and quickly dialled in an order, before padding off to shower.

There was still no sign of Bilbo by the time he returned, wearing long, loose cotton pyjama pants and nothing else, to compensate for the sticky heat, but when the doorbell rang a little later with the pizza he startled out of his reverie, smiling at Thorin a little sheepishly as he deposited his laptop on the side and threw himself down on the sofa.

“Home long?”

Thorin shook his head. “Not too long.”

He passed Bilbo one of the pizza boxes and took a seat on the floor, leaning back against the sofa, with his own.

Thorin had never really considered living with another person before now, which sounded a little peculiar considering he hadn’t moved out of his family home until he was nearly thirty, when he signed the deeds over to Dis. But his younger siblings were one thing, a partner or housemate quite another – and after so many years of trying to look after his younger siblings, living alone had felt like an unprecedented luxury.

Pizza in one hand, he reached out with his other to gently take hold of Bilbo’s ankle, running his thumb around the protrusion of the joint.

Bilbo hummed, contentedly.

“You should really learn to cook, by the way,” said Bilbo, around a mouthful of cheese. “This can’t be healthy for you, eating pizza every day.”

Thorin huffed, and his fingers gently traced the curve of Bilbo’s instep, dislodging a couple of blades of grass from the garden.

“I don’t eat it every day,” he argued, and Bilbo shoved at his shoulder with his knee.

“You could always _make_ pizza, instead, you know,” Bilbo continued, as if Thorin had never spoken.

“As if I know how to do that.”

“I’ll teach you,” Bilbo answered, and Thorin squeezed his ankle gently.

They lapsed back into silence, and continued eating. Somewhere in the apartment Bilbo’s phone rang, but he didn’t move to pick it up,

The temperature had blunted Thorin’s appetite, and he gave up on eating soon after, resting his head back against the sofa – Bilbo seemed to have no compunction about the heat, and gamely continued.

His eyes slipped shut and he began to hum, some old song he only half-remembered from his childhood, letting the heavy weight of the day that had settled around his shoulders slowly slip away. After a while came the thud of another pizza box hitting the floor, the rustle of a napkin, and then a hand was running gently through his hair, fingernails grazing the curve of his ear, rubbing soothing circles just above his hairline.

“You’d better not be getting pizza grease in my hair,” he said, the corners of his mouth turning up slightly in a teasing smile. Bilbo laughed, a small, quiet sound, from behind him.

“Oh hush,” he replied, almost whispering, as his fingers continued to scratch soothingly at Thorin’s scalp. “Keep singing.”

So Thorin did, and Bilbo hummed along quietly from time to time, slowly slouching down on the sofa so he was almost curled around Thorin’s shoulders, lying on his side. His other hand dropped down to the tattoo reaching around Thorin’s ribcage, stroking the lines of it, and after a moment he too closed his eyes.

Distantly, Bilbo’s phone rang again, and Thorin frowned at the interruption, knocking his shoulder back against Bilbo even as the smaller man let out a noise of protest.

“Phone,” he said, and Bilbo groaned.

“Fine, fine,” he said, struggling to his feet, though not before he nuzzled his nose against Thorin’s hair for just a moment. “Do we have any ice?”

Thorin shook his head.

“I’ll pick some up tomorrow on my way home from work.”

Bilbo nodded, padding away to the spare room, and Thorin heaved himself up with a sigh, scooping up the pizza boxes and carrying them through to the kitchen. He investigated the freezer half-heartedly, just in case there had been any ice, but it was as he had suspected: they had used it all up the day before. He kept his head leant close to the cool air for a moment before shutting it again, having to stop himself from jumping as he caught sight of Bilbo in the doorway, frowning down at his phone.

“I’m going to put a bell on you if you keep walking that quietly,” he said, smiling just a little as he reached into the fridge for a bottle of water. Bilbo smiled in return, but it was a poor imitation of his usual grin, and Thorin felt something cold tighten in his chest.

“What is it?”

Bilbo glanced up, apparently only just focusing on his surroundings if the slightly startled look in his eye was any indication.

“Oh, sorry. It was Gandalf.”

Thorin resisted the urge to slam something shut. Anything. “Oh?”

Bilbo just nodded, and didn’t say anything else, still turning his phone over and over in his hands as if contemplating something.

“It wasn’t… bad news?” Thorin ventured after another long, baited silence, his voice perhaps coming out a little harsher than he had meant it to. At least it caught Bilbo’s attention; he offered Thorin a small, peculiar smile and turned back into the living room, calling out his reply as he hovered by the sofa, clearly debating whether or not to sit back down.

“Ah- no, not like that. He was just keeping me up to date.”

Thorin followed him, impatience pulling his face into a scowl.

“And?”

Bilbo shrugged.

“It turns out that Gandalf knew someone – although I’m not exactly sure what that means. Anyway, he’s managed to get the appeal through quicker than he thought.”

Thorin froze, as he half-turned towards the armchair, his back to Bilbo now.

“Ah.”

He couldn’t see what Bilbo looked like, what kind of expression he was pulling, and he was almost glad that he could not.

“So they have to leave in the next five working days, apparently.”

Thorin nodded, carefully moving his limbs, clenching his fists at his side.

“So… by Thursday?”

Bilbo made a low hum of agreement, before clearing his throat. Thorin could almost picture him rubbing awkwardly at his nose, and he realised with a start that he wouldn’t be able to see those little gestures that he had grown so uncommonly fond of every day, anymore.

“Yeah, on Thursday I can move back in.”

“I see.” He knew his voice was cold, but he wasn’t quite sure how to change it.

“I’ll have to get a locksmith in, I don’t trust them not to come back or have duplicates of the keys.” Bilbo’s voice sounded less hesitant now, an undercurrent of excitement as he seemed to finally realise that this meant he was finally getting his home back.

Thorin tried to feel happy, he really did; he dug his nails into his palm until he no longer wanted to break something.

“I know someone, I can call them for you if you like.”

Bilbo touched the bare skin of Thorin’s back, his fingertips hesitant for a moment before his palm curled around Thorin’s hip.

“That would be great, thank you.”

The soft press of Bilbo’s forehead appeared between Thorin’s shoulder-blades, and he suddenly felt undone.

“So… you’re going.”

Bilbo’s voice was low, and quiet.

“Yeah, I suppose I am. I mean… this was only going to be until I moved back, right?”

Thorin nodded, despite himself, and did not answer.

“And it isn’t like this changes anything, between us, my dear. Not really.”

He thought Bilbo must have felt the tension in his back, the sudden hum of taut muscle as he squared his shoulders against the prospect of what they were changing.

“As in, I still want… us,” Bilbo continued, after a moment, pressing a soft kiss against the warm skin under his mouth. “You… still do, as well, right?”

Thorin twisting against Bilbo then, turning around to face him properly; the idea that Bilbo might doubt that made him feel a little breathless, a little pained.

“Of course.” His tone was perhaps harder than it needed to be, but Bilbo just smiled, relieved.

“Ah, okay, good.”

Thorin ran a careful, hesitant hand through Bilbo’s hair, ending up cradling the back of his head, almost tenderly. Bilbo smiled up at him, and he watched the gentle creasing at the corner of his eyes, lines caused by life and laughter, and he wanted, for just a moment, to cry. He kissed them instead, just lightly, and when he pulled away it was to see Bilbo smiling again.

“Things couldn’t stay this way forever, could they?” Thorin said in a low, heavy voice, and Bilbo smiled.

“But it has been lovely. And we still have a few more days.”

His tone was reassuring, and there was a warmth in his words that made Thorin want to bury his face in Bilbo’s neck.

“Thorin,” Bilbo said, his hands lifting for a moment before falling back to his sides. “Thorin, we… I… I like _us,_ I need you to know that, and I need you to know that the fact that I’m moving back doesn’t change that-” he broke off, looking down at the ground, a little unsure.

“It doesn’t change _anything_ ,” he repeated after a little while, his voice much quieter now. “And at least… we do this whole dating thing a bit more ordinarily now, right?”

Thorin took a half-step closer, and Bilbo rose up on his tip-toes, pressing his forehead against Thorin’s cheek.

“I didn’t know you wanted _ordinary,_ ” he said, so quietly that Bilbo almost didn’t hear it, and Bilbo hummed, just a little.

“I just meant…” he wetted his lips, not entirely sure what he did mean after all. “I don’t want _ordinary,_ not like that… I want _you_.”

Thorin sighed, and then he was kissing the crown of Bilbo’s head, talking against the curls of his hair.

“I know,” he said.

Bilbo smiled against Thorin’s skin.

“And I’m not saying that I would have changed anything that’s happened, you know,” Bilbo continued. “That’s not what I meant.” He paused, for a moment. “I’m making a complete mess of this, aren’t I? I'm trying to tell you that I'd like to date you _properly,_ without relying on your charity. Are you alright?”

Thorin laughed, and nodded, and felt a sudden burst of resolve, a determination that seemed to burn with a fierce intensity underneath his skin, prickling the hair on the back of his neck. It was _going to be alright._ He would _make it._  

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” Bilbo said, with a quiet sigh. “I’m sorry.”

Thorin shook his head.

“You didn’t. I just… didn’t really remember that you would be going. And it isn't charity. I've liked having you here.”

Bilbo nudged his side, gently.

“I’ll miss you,” he told Thorin, sincerely, his voice a little muffled as he hid his face against Thorin’s front.

Thorin huffed a quiet little laugh, and kissed his hair again.

“It’ll be strange around here, without you.”

Bilbo nuzzled his nose against Thorin’s bare skin, and Thorin could _feel_ his smile.

“I’ll make you dinner, when I’m back in my old kitchen,” he said, and Thorin locked one arm around Bilbo’s back, the other still cradling his head. “Proper dinner. Courses and everything. With dessert.”

“I’ll look forward to it, love,” Thorin said, quietly, and Bilbo kissed his collarbone.

The warm term of endearment had slipped out without him quite meaning to, but he did not try and bluff over it, or retract it, though the urge to do so was still there. Bilbo stilled in his arms for a moment, before practically _melting_ against him, hands wrapping firmly around Thorin’s lower back and holding on.  

“It’ll be fine,” Bilbo whispered. “It’ll be strange, but it’ll be _fine._ ”

“It will be,” Thorin said, firmly, nose still in the short curls of Bilbo’s hair, before moving his mouth to trace the curve of Bilbo’s ear, his long stubble catching lightly on curls. “It _will_ be.”

“Because,” continued Thorin, after a long moment of warm silence, “because I’m already convinced that we’re _extra_ ordinary _,_ you know.”

It sounded daft, now he’d said it out loud, and Bilbo was laughing at him, and swatting him gently, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to regret saying it.

“Ridiculous creature,” Bilbo said, his voice soft, because Thorin’s had sounded so painfully earnest; he had to swallow down his emotions as he pressed a kiss against Thorin’s throat. “Ridiculous, _perfect_ creature. I think so, too.”


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second chapter of the day!

“Hi,” Bilbo said, with a warm little smile, as he came into the room, where Thorin was propped up against the kitchen counter. His mouth felt a little fuzzy and the muscles in his legs were aching, but the brief sleep he just woken from had revitalised him a bit, despite the weather.

It felt almost as though it was threatening to storm, the afternoon lying across the city like a weighted blanket, the sun beating down through the thin haze of cloud. Bilbo had been perspiring from the moment he had left the house earlier, and that was before Bofur had run him through a series of rather gruelling exercises.

“How was physical therapy?” Thorin asked, as Bilbo yawned, still a little sleepy from his nap, scruffing at his hair.

“Tiring,” he answered, only then really registering how Thorin looked. “I- oh.”

He’d clearly been out for a run, despite the heat, and his dark t-shirt was stuck to the moulded contours of his chest, damp with sweat and showing off the firm lines of muscle about his shoulders and chest to a rather unfair advantage. The shorts he was wearing (and oh, he wasn’t sure that Thorin should really be allowed out of the house with thighs that looked like _that_ ) really weren’t helping.

Thorin looked at him a little oddly.

“Are you okay?”

Bilbo swallowed. “Mhmm.”

Thorin stretched, and Bilbo stared up at the ceiling. When he dared to drop his eyes again he realised that Thorin’s gaze was now fixed on him, still wearing the long boxer shorts and over-sized shirt he had fallen asleep in.

Then Thorin looked away, quite suddenly, and took a deep swallow from his bottle of water.

The kitchen suddenly felt very, _very_ warm, and he had a feeling that it was nothing to do with the weather outside.

He wetted his lower lip with the tip of his tongue, and Thorin exhaled, audibly.

It would have been very easy, he though, just to jump the three steps across the kitchen, grab hold of Thorin by the shirt, and drag him into the bedroom.

Very easy indeed.

Thorin plucked at his shirt, pulling the damp fabric away from his skin, revealing a line of skin, and my god, _he really had to stop doing that._

“The pub!” Bilbo said, quite suddenly, tearing his eyes away. “I mean, I’m going to the pub. In about an hour. With Bofur. The pub. Yes.”

He blinked. That hadn’t come out quite the way he had meant it to, but Thorin nodded, leaning back against the counter as he poured a little water into a cupped hand and putting it to his forehead, pushing his hair back, damp now. Bilbo watched, a little entranced, as a thin stream of water curved down his cheek and jaw, before dropping to his throat. Bilbo swallowed reflexively as the water pooled for just a moment at the base of his throat before it soaked into the fabric of his shirt.

His eyes, when he looked back at Bilbo’s, were a little guarded, and Bilbo smiled.

“Want to come?”

 

\--

 

“This is a lovely place,” Bilbo commented, as Bofur lead them out the back of the old pub to the beer garden, half-overshadowed by the cliffs into which the pub was built, casting welcome shade across the still half-empty garden. The heat seemed only to have intensified as the evening had worn on, and he sipped at his iced rum as the crossed to a spare table, his neck already a little damp with perspiration.

“Ta,” said Bofur, as they sat down. “It’s our local haunt. My brother runs the bar and the kitchen, and that’s my cousin, over there.”

He nodded with his head in the direction of a group of men, who waved cheerily back at him; they had the warm, lined smiles of comfortable people more than happy to share a joke and a pint with a stranger in order to make a friend, and Bilbo smiled back at them.

One of the men – the one with salt-and-pepper hair and a scar dissecting his face – caught Thorin’s eye and nodded, familiarly, at him. Thorin nodded back, before glancing down at his hands.

“Do you know him?” Bilbo asked, curious, his interest growing all the more when Thorin’s jaw twitched and he would not meet his eye.

Bofur looked between them curiously.

“D’you mean my cousin, Bifur?” he said, cheerily. “He runs that flower shop just off the high street near here. You know the one?”

Thorin nodded, looking uncomfortable. “My shop’s near there.”

Bofur grinned. “Ah, so you know the shop! Big plant man, are ya?”

He turned to Bilbo then, still cheery. “He does a huge range of household plants,” he said. “You should check them out some time, you like your flowers, don’t you?”

Bilbo nodded, hiding a smile.

“I do, yes – Thorin bought a lovely new azalea the other day. Was it from there?” he asked Thorin, who nodded, tight jawed, and Bofur waved at his cousin. Bifur extracted himself from his group of friends and padded across the paving stones, sending a small, reserved smile at Bilbo and Thorin before wrapping his hand around the still-seated Bofur’s head, pulling it against his stomach in an oddly gentle gesture.

“Nice to see you again, Mr Durin,” he said to Thorin, his voice deep and hoarse. Bilbo smiled up at him even as Thorin murmured a gruff reply.

“Are you looking after the a-” he broke off, frowning, an oddly pained look on his face even as his eyes went distant. It took Bilbo a moment to realise what was going on, and then he considered the broad scar that cut across his forehead, wondering what kind of accident had resulted in this.

“Azeleas,” he finished, after a moment, and the lack of awkwardness in the small, reassuring smile he sent at Bofur made it clear that it wasn’t a new affliction. Bilbo remembered with sudden clarity how he had been, when he had first woken, and he counted himself suddenly lucky that the difficulty he had had in remembering words had passed. It was strange, to think of himself as lucky, but then he glanced at Thorin, and reminded himself at the other fortunate turn that his accident had blessed him with.

“I- Bilbo is,” said Thorin, and though he sounded uncomfortable it was obvious to anyone listening to his tone that it was from admitting that he himself hadn’t been caring for the plant, rather than at Bifur’s momentary silence.

Bilbo smiled up at the man.

“Several of the blooms have opened now,” he said, eyes warm, missing the way that Thorin glanced at him, the sudden softening of his tense jaw betraying his affection. “But I wouldn’t take credit. It was perfectly taken care of. Some pot plants that you buy are dried out, and need tending. Yours was in beautiful condition.”

Bifur looked satisfied, a small flush of pleasure across the bridge of his nose, and he turned back to Thorin.

“And you were pleased with the m… meaning?”

Thorin took a deep draught from his cider, and nodded. Bofur and Bilbo both looked at him and then up at Bifur, almost in sync, in curiosity.

“What?” asked Bofur, when it was obvious that neither of them were going to elaborate. “What meaning?”

Bilbo nudged Thorin.

“Were you asking about flower meanings?”

Thorin looked a little sheepish.

“No?”

Bifur coughed.

“You were!”

Bofur was grinning fit to burst now.

“And what meaning did these flowers have?”

Bilbo shook his head, unwilling to embarrass Thorin any further, but he pressed the length of his thigh against Thorin’s, for just a moment.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said, feeling a small coil of warmth in his chest as he remembered the way that Thorin had asked him about the flowers, had wanted Bilbo to explain them to him even though he had already known the meaning.

“It was nice to meet you,” Bifur said quietly, to Bilbo. “And I’m glad you like the plant.”

“Thank you,” replied Bilbo. “You too. I’d love to stop by your show some time.”

Bifur nodded, smiled once more at Bofur, and left again, rubbing at his scar thoughtfully.

He and Bofur returned to the conversation they had started at the bar, joking between each other, friendly teasing that slipped easily from him. He was often an impatient person when it came to socialising with other people, but Bofur, like the extended Durin family, made him feel much more relaxed than most of his family, or the people he had known growing up, had ever done – he seemed to fit with the strange company of people he had met since he had woken up from his coma better with any other people he had known.

He glanced at Thorin, thinking particularly of him, and saw that his face was pulled into a slight frown as he stared down at his cider. It was the same expression that sometimes appeared when Bilbo laughed with Frerin, or mentioned a person from his past; he hadn’t really understood before, but he realised with a sudden moment of clarity that it lay somewhere between insecurity and a well-controlled jealousy, his fingers tapping a little impatiently at the glass as he watched Bofur, carefully.

Bilbo couldn’t help but appreciate the self-containment with which Thorin held his emotions in check, even if he could appreciate how it might end up frustrating from time to time when he did not articulate his feelings. But where a less controlled man might have snapped, might have rallied against Bilbo with irritation, he kept it tight to his chest, never letting it lash out.

Or, he amended to himself, rarely.

He hadn’t seen it yet, but he suspected that when Thorin’s temper did get the better of him, that it would be a sharp and brittle thing, honed by repression.

But he had never let it loose on Bilbo, had never been anything but kind.

Thorin caught his glance, and his eyes were a little uncertain; Bilbo wished that he could think of something to say ease that look, but there was nothing he could say out in public, so he settled for taking Thorin’s hand on the bench between them, running his thumb soothingly along the soft skin between Thorin’s first finger and the juncture of his own thumb.

He turned back to the anecdote Bofur was telling them, and things continued, only now Thorin occasionally chipped in as well, and the next time Bilbo glanced over, the uncertainty had diminished.

He squeezed Thorin’s hand, gently, three times over.

One _. I._

Two _. Love._

Three _. You._

He realised he was blushing, even if he had said the words only in his head.

 

\--

 

“It’s so warm still,” said Bilbo as they came in through the door of Thorin’s flat. “I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep yet."

Thorin hummed his agreement, and Bilbo rose up, pressing a kiss to the corner of Thorin's mouth. There was only a couple more days of this, he thought, a little sadly, before they would once again be living separately. 

"Do you want to sit outside, for a while?”

Thorin nodded. He hadn’t let go of Bilbo’s hand since the smaller man had first taken his, earlier in the evening, and even now they were back inside he still held on, as if it were a lifeline of some kind to him.

“Drink?” he asked, and his voice was low and quiet in the dark hallway; the light from the evening had almost gone, and they hadn’t bothered to switch any lights on as they had come inside.

Bilbo smiled his agreement. “With lots of ice, please.”

He finally untangled his hands from Thorin and padded away to the bathroom; when he made his way outside it was to find Thorin stretched out on a sun-lounger in the dark, eyes closed and hands behind his head, two tall gin and tonics on the ground next to him.

He glanced at the second sun lounger for a moment, and then Thorin cracked open an eye.

“Come here,” he said, his voice still quiet in the heavy, still night, and he shifted his legs, one to either side of the lounger. Bilbo shot him a small, fond smile, and settled down between Thorin’s thighs after scooping up his drink, wondering a little at just how well he fit there. He sat up, but then Thorin’s arms were around his middle, and he was pulled back against a solid chest without delay.

It was still so warm, too warm for this kind of thing, but as the heavy weight of Thorin’s body settled around himself, holding him close, a hand slipped under his shirt and stroked, almost reverently, the soft curve of his stomach, and he found that the heat could really be damned.

He still might have protested, but then a mouth found the gentle curve where his shoulder met his neck, and he found that he quite lost the ability to speak.

Bilbo took a long drink to try and distract himself from the way that Thorin’s teeth were grazing at his skin now, and the ice clinked against the glass.

He shifted a little, and Thorin’s thumb hooked into his waistband.

He was so _damn_ warm, and like in the kitchen earlier that evening, it was only half to do with the weather.

He hooked an ice cube from his glass, and sucked on it, his teeth digging in as Thorin kissed the skin under his ear and he found himself making a breathy, low noise in response, pushing back as he felt something hard against his lower back, something constrained by Thorin’s jeans but making its presence known, and now Thorin’s hand was at his jaw, against his mouth, and-

“You have freckles,” came the deep, ragged voice from behind him, “right here.”

His nose nuzzled along his hairline, and Bilbo shuddered.

“How can you even see in this light?”

His back arched into Thorin’s chest as teeth tugged at his earlobe and a finger pushed into his mouth, hooking the half-melted ice cube and taking it with him, trailing it across Bilbo's jaw, leaving a cool, damp wake.

“I’m looking,” came Thorin’s quiet reply, and Bilbo could _feel_ the rumble of Thorin’s voice through his own chest. “I’m looking _very closely._ ”

“How many other freckles do you have?” he continued, as the ice cube tracked a path down Bilbo’s throat; a drip of water ran down the curve of it, and Thorin chased it with his tongue, before pulling impatiently at his shirt. The ice dipped into the groove of his collarbone, and Bilbo shuddered.

“You’ll have to find out,” he said, and then he was twisting in Thorin’s arms, spilling his drink as he tried to place it on the ground, kneeling in front of the other man now, because he had to kiss him, he _needed_ to kiss him, and Thorin’s mouth tasted of cider as he licked his way into it, _sinking_ against him, a strange tenderness mixed with his desperation, his hands in Thorin’s hair and his breathing unsteady.

Thorin made a low noise against his mouth, and rolled his hips against Bilbo’s and his clothes and even his own skin suddenly felt too tight, too much, and he _wanted,_ and-

“Thorin,” he managed, when they pulled away, and he wondered how he was still even able to think, let alone speak. “Thorin, I _need-”_

“Inside,” the other man replied, and the single word was ragged, as if his voice and composure both were close to breaking. “Inside, _now._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You get the frick, but not the frack. That comes tomorrow. ;)


	31. Chapter 31

The door to the back garden bounced off the kitchen wall; he supposed that that was only to be expected, as Bilbo had basically fallen against it to push his open, his back slamming against the wood as Thorin crowded against him.

He’d be black and blue by the morning, his mind managed to consider as his hip hit the counter next, but he couldn’t bring himself to care; Thorin’s hands found the counter edge and bracketed him in against it, pinning in him place with his body, his hips pressed against his and rolling, incessantly, grinding the hard length of himself against Bilbo’s own.

He might have gasped at the feeling, but Thorin’s mouth was on his, alternating between tugging at his lip in something close to hunger and kissing him with what felt like _years_ of pent up frustration, and Bilbo could only pull at the buttons of Thorin’s shirt, until it hung open over his chest, letting Bilbo trace the hard lines of his pectorals, the deep v of his hipbones, the coarse hair that grew thicker just before it disappeared under the waistband of his boxers.

It was still so warm, too warm, but he couldn't care less, couldn't  _stop,_ and his hands slipped underneath that waistband, not enough room to get in properly, but now he could feel the hardness of him, and he ran his fingers across the soft skin of Thorin’s head, and Thorin _groaned_ against Bilbo’s mouth, and his hands were suddenly and abruptly moved as Thorin shifted and he could no longer reach.

But then hands were on his thighs, and Bilbo ran his fingers over the bare skin of Thorin’s forearms, his checked shirt rolled up to his elbows, and then his palms found the counter behind him to help as Thorin lifted him up on to the surface; his legs wrapped around Thorin’s back and he was reminded suddenly of when they had first kissed, here in this very kitchen.

It felt like far longer ago than it had actually been, and he wondered for that a moment as Thorin wrenched away from the kiss, tugging impatiently at Bilbo's shirt; he arched his back as Thorin pulled it up, over his head, but as soon as it was discarded on the floor his hands were in the dark mane of Thorin’s hair as that mouth found Bilbo’s collarbone, the groove at the bottom of his throat, the curve of his shoulder, licking and sucking as Bilbo’s head fell back, his breath suddenly coming short and panting, scrambling now at Thorin’s shoulders for any kind of purchase against the onslaught of rough, open-mouthed kisses.

“Freckles,” Thorin murmured against Bilbo’s skin, over the place just above his left pectoral where there were indeed a smattering of them, left over from some long-ago cycling holiday in the south of France; his voice was hot and low, and he set his teeth to work at bringing a dark mark up against them, pressing a quick, light kiss when he was done, ducking down to pull up another one on the softness of his stomach, just below his ribcage.

Iron chains of restraint seemed suddenly to have snapped, and Thorin’s hands were _everywhere,_ nails digging in to Bilbo’s back before moving to his thighs, palming at the swollen hardness still unfairly (in Bilbo’s opinion) trapped in his jeans, pulling a breathy moan from Bilbo before taking his thighs again, licking his way back into Bilbo’s mouth as he lifted him, half-stumbling as he moved them from the counter and stumbled towards the living room door.

He was pushing against the fabric of Thorin’s shirt, trying to get access to the width of his shoulders, to feel the tension of those muscles underneath his hands, but there was no give, the fabric caught between their bodies, and as he groaned his frustration Thorin stumbled, finding a wall to press Bilbo against as he readjusted his grip.

Bilbo wasn’t sure that he would have been able to _walk_ right now, let alone carry another, so he did not protest as his back hit the wall perhaps a little too hard to be comfortable, just used the opportunity to free the material; still caught at Thorin’s elbows it pooled around the middle of his back, but it left his shoulders bare, and as Thorin straightened to move again Bilbo pressed his mouth against the hard line of his trapezius, that tempting triangle that reached from collarbone to neck, accidentally biting just a little harder than he had intended as Thorin shifting Bilbo’s hips, rubbing his almost-painfully swollen erection  against Thorin’s stomach.

He couldn’t tell if that had been an accident or not, but Thorin didn’t seem to mind the way that Bilbo had bitten him, if the way he dropped Bilbo unceremoniously on the sofa before practically _pouncing_ on him was any indication.

“You,” Thorin managed to say, against Bilbo’s mouth, “ _You._ ”

He got the rest of Thorin’s shirt off him then, throwing it with uncharacteristic care over the coffee table – his mother might have disapproved of him not folding it properly, but then, thank the stars, his mother was not here right now.

“I need you,” he said, breathlessly, as Thorin lifted up from him, held up on one hand as the other reached for the buttons of Bilbo’s trousers, and Thorin stilled, for just a moment, before his hand swayed its course and cupped Bilbo’s face, gently, almost tenderly, tilting his jaw to press a deep, soft kiss against his mouth, and then another, the tempered heat of their earlier passion turning for a moment into something softer, something sweeter, and then Thorin was murmuring against his skin again as he mouthed his way down Bilbo’s chest, his words lost to the sound of heavy breathing and the creaking of the sofa underneath them, the rustle of fabric and the scrape of Bilbo’s nails against the leather as he reached for something, anything, to hold on to.

He thought he caught the word _love,_ but he couldn’t be sure, and it might not have meant what he would have liked it to.

Then he was lifting his hips so Thorin could slide his jeans and underwear down around his thighs, and a warm tongue was running down the cant of his pelvis, a cheek grazing against his erection, and the sudden stimulation of his long stubble – almost a short beard now, really – was almost too much: his hips jumped and his back arched off the sofa, and he bit down on his arm to stop himself from making too obscene a noise as Thorin took him in his mouth, one hand steadying Bilbo’s hips as he moved despite himself.

“ _Thorin,_ ” he said, though it was perhaps more of a groan than an actual word, and the other man hummed around him, a rather distracting vibration that had his core muscles clenching. Bilbo dug his teeth in deeper as Thorin moved up and down, the lightest graze of teeth at the sensitive skin just underneath the head sending the hair on the back of his neck on end.

Thorin’s hand took over as he removed his mouth, stroking up and down him in a teasingly soft rhythm, and Bilbo sighed as Thorin sucked at the soft skin at the juncture of his thigh, his other hand reaching up to Bilbo’s face, two fingers pressing against his mouth until he took them in, grazing his teeth along them.

Then one was pressing into him, Thorin’s thumb rubbing soothing circles against his perineum, and if he wasn’t sure at what point Thorin’s hands had moved then it was only because he was still mouthing at Bilbo’s skin, utterly distracting.

“Bedroom,” he gasped, as Thorin rubbed against something inside him that made his spine feel liquid and his constricted his breathing, for just a moment. “Bedroom, _please._ ”

Thorin nodded, pulling his body back but kissing Bilbo even as he tugged him into sitting up. He had to kick off the trousers still caught half way around his legs, and then they were standing, and kissing still, and moving towards the hallway; Bilbo hit the coffee table with his knee and the doorframe with his elbow, and Thorin swore into their kiss as he almost tripped on the corner of the rug, but they didn’t stop the near-frantic press of their kiss even as he struggled with Thorin’s jeans, attempts to get them off somewhat hindered by the fact that Thorin seemed to be doing his hardest to finish him here and _now,_ in the hallway, if the way that he was firmly stroking up and down his length was any indication.

They found the bedroom door with some difficulty, and Bilbo fell half-on-top of Thorin as the back of the taller man’s knees hit the bed and he collapsed back against the sheets. Bilbo straddled his waist, finally able to start pulling off his trousers, one knee on either side of Thorin’s hips; hands stroked softly at his pelvis, his stomach, up his slides, moving with a quick surety to cover as much skin as he could.

“Bedside table,” Thorin muttered as Bilbo finally succeeded in getting his jeans down to his knees; Thorin kicked them the rest of the way off as Bilbo stretched over him, pushing Thorin down fully as he scrabbled in the drawer.

He threw the bottle at Thorin and after a moment cool a finger was back inside him, slick now and pressing, and Thorin was kissing him like it was the only way for him to survive, and Bilbo found himself melting against Thorin’s front as he was worked open with a fierce but tender determination, lifting his chest up a little to take hold of himself and Thorin, their lengths barely fitting in one hand as he ran it up and down the pair of them, slowly, teasingly.

Bilbo groaned as a second finger pushed into him, and then another, the coolness of the lube too much against his heated skin, sweat beading on his neck; Thorin reached up, and dragged his tongue along his throat, tasting it and mouthing at his skin.

Enough, it was almost too much now, and Bilbo wasn’t sure if he was going to last much longer; he sat up, on his knees still, and thumbed the ring of rubber he'd grabbed from the drawer over Thorin.

He caught Thorin’s eye, and there was such heat in his gaze, and such affection, that he had to look away as it caused something tight to build in the back of his throat; then he lowered himself, working the heavy length through the ring of muscle with only the slightest burn, and then Thorin was inside him, and he eased up and down, once, twice, before Thorin’s hips were moving to match his, picking up the pace, his hands on either side of Thorin’s shoulders and thighs beginning to ache as they met each other in a bruising, desperate pace, over and over again, the sound of their bodies meeting loud in the silence of the room, but then Thorin shifted his hips, just a little, and that terribly _wonderful_ feeling was back as he found _that_ part of him, and he let out a low, unsteady noise to break that quiet, and he leant forward, letting Thorin push in deeper, his face of the other man’s; he was breathing too hard to kiss Thorin properly but his mouth traced his lower lip anyway as they moved against each other; breath hot against each other’s skin.

“Close,” Thorin whispered, as a twinge of pleasure caused Bilbo to clench around him, and he made a noise in the back of his throat as Bilbo sank just a little lower, taking him just that fraction deeper; his voice was _wrecked,_ and Bilbo tried his hardest to _remember_ it, because there was nothing he wanted more than to be able to recall it.

“ _Bilbo,_ ” he said again, and it wasn’t fair how beautiful Thorin sounded, like that, heady and a little lost as he pushed up deep inside him, and then his hand found Bilbo’s length, thumb spreading the precome already beading there around his head in a slow, a _painfully_ slow circle for just a moment before setting a fast pace, close to overstimulation as pleasure began to coil in chest, hot and growing almost too quickly, and then he was gasping as Thorin’s other hand pulled him back down, kissing him, pulling Bilbo’s lower lip between his teeth as he stroked Bilbo with firm, sure movements, and then he was coming over Thorin’s stomach, pleasure spiking through him, _crashing_ through him; Thorin’s hips shuddered underneath him and he bucked once, twice, three times, his head thrown back, dark hair spread across the sheets.

A peal of thunder rolled somewhere in the distance.

Bilbo had to check for a moment, to make sure that he was still breathing.

He was; shakily, admittedly, but he still was.  

His fingers pushed back Thorin’s hair, and the other man opened his eyes, looking up at him.

“Perfect,” he told Bilbo, his voice quiet. “ _You’re_ the perfect one.”

Bilbo grinned, and sank his head to Thorin’s chest, still panting just a little.

“Ridiculous man,” he told him, and underneath him, he could _feel_ Thorin laugh.

 

\--

 

He woke the next morning to the smell of coffee in the air, the steady beat of rain outside against the ground, and the distant murmur of a voice; he scrunched his eyes against the warm fabric of the pillow and pushed himself up on his elbows, glancing blearily around.

“Mmf,” he muttered, and flopped back down again.

He stretched out his arm, but the bed beside him was empty, and he grumbled a little into his pillow, arching his back. There was a pleasant ache around his thighs and a chill running across his bare back from the open window; he glanced up and over at the billowing curtains, stained a little dark at the bottom from the rain. The humidity had finally broken, and with a sigh he patted the covers, trying to find a corner for him to pull up over himself, to shield him from the breeze.

It was cooler, he realised, because the heat of Thorin’s body had gone from the bed.

And speak of the devil; the bedroom door opened, and Thorin padded in, naked and a little rumpled looking, the hairs on his arms standing to attention as the draft caught him.

“Good morning,” he said, following Thorin’s every movement.

“Sleep well?” Thorin asked, in return, and Bilbo nodded, reaching his hand out to graze across Thorin’s hip as he passed.

“Very. Shouldn’t you be at work?” Bilbo asked, a little confused, glancing at the light shining in from the window, which was bright enough despite the no doubt heavy clouds that would be obscuring the sunlight.

“You’re leaving tomorrow,” Thorin said, quietly, as he put the two mugs of coffee down on the bedside table and went to close the window. “I thought Dwalin could watch the shop for the day.”

“Oh?” said Bilbo, rolling on to his side. “And what were you thinking of doing with this day?”

“Well,” said Thorin, and though that strange sadness around his eyes was still there it lifted a little, the corner of his mouth turning up. “I thought, for a start, that I would get back into bed.”

“Mmhmm,” replied Bilbo, the bed dipping beside him as Thorin sat back down. Bilbo’s hands ran down the length of Thorin’s naked side, tracing the lines of his tattoo.

He still hadn’t figured out why Thorin had a bird around his ribcage, but he stroked at the blue-black feathers of what might have been a crow, but could also have been a raven, with his fingertips, before pulling gently at his arm.

“And what about after you get back into bed?” he asked, his voice soft, as Thorin followed the pull of his hand, lying back down beside him. He pulled at the sheets that covered Bilbo, burrowing underneath them too, pressing the cool length of his body against Bilbo’s.

“I’d like to hold you,” he said, his voice low, and the sweet and honest sentiment in his voice made something clench in Bilbo’s chest, made it a little hard to breath. An arm hooked around Bilbo’s back, and pulled him closer. “If that is alright with you. And then probably not get out of bed for the rest of the day.”

“Sounds perfect,” answered Bilbo, even as Thorin’s mouth found the line of his jaw, pressing warm, open mouthed kisses against it.

He gasped, just a little, as Thorin found the faint mark of a bruise from the night before.

“That can _definitely_ be arranged.”

Bilbo caught Thorin’s jaw, then, and pulled him up to kiss him good morning properly, doing his best to wipe the thought of departure from both their minds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi. So. That was the second, ur, intimate scene that I've written. Easier? Not even slightly. So. Yeah. *runs away*


	32. Chapter 32

“Is that it?” Dis said, looking down at the holdall in the back of Thorin’s car with some surprise. “We thought we were coming along to help you move back in, you know.”

Bilbo nodded, grinning. “What were you expecting?”

Frerin knocked down the kickstand of his motorbike with a foot, hopping off with more elegance, Bilbo thought, than he himself would ever have been able to achieve, no matter how much time might spend practising.

“A lot more than that,” he chipped in, as he tugged off his helmet and pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. Thorin glared at him a little grumpily, but Frerin just shrugged off his heavy look cheerfully. “What, do you not own anything?”

Bilbo shot him a baleful look.

“I might not, if Lobelia burnt everything in vengeance when she was told that she had to leave.”

Thorin’s hand settled on his lower back as Bilbo glanced up at the green front door of the house, of _his_ house once again. They had pulled up several minutes ago, but he still had not quite dared to go up, to go inside, to make sure that everything was right again. He somehow felt that if it did, the illusion of his home that he had built up so firmly in his mind might shatter, might be destroyed, might-

“Shall we go in, then?”

Dis nudged Frerin sharply, but Bilbo felt a sudden and enormous rush of relief.

It _wasn’t_ as big a deal as he was making it out in his head, and more importantly, he wasn’t doing it alone. He had friends here.

Thorin’s thumb slipped under the hem of his shirt, and rubbed gently at the skin of his back.

He had _family_ here.

“Lets,” he said, decisively, and reached for his back, but Vivi got there before he did.

“We’ve got it,” she said to him, smiling gently, and Fili grabbed his hand, towing him towards the door.

“Let’s go, Uncle Bilbo!”

He glanced in surprise at Dis, but she was smiling too.

“He asked if he could call you that. Do you mind?”

He shook his head.

How could he mind?

Thorin grabbed the bags of food that they had picked up on their way, and offered him a small, comforting smile.

The door unlocked easily, and opened smoothly, and there was his house, his again, and he kicked off his shoes, the smoothly varnished wooden floors familiar underneath his feet. It smelled a little musty, not quite right, but a few hours with the windows open in the cool, overcast day would fix that, as well as removing the jasmine-scented electric air-fresheners that Lobelia had plugged into every room. The low, vaulted ceilings were above him, the warm shine of the wooden panelling of the walls on either side, and he was _home_. He leant back, feeling a comforting presence against his back, and rested against Thorin’s chest.

“Home,” said Thorin, in a quiet voice, and there was the rustle of bags as he placed one handful of shopping on the floor, his arm wrapping around Bilbo’s middle, pulling him close.

His chin rested on Bilbo’s shoulder, the scrape of his beard against Bilbo’s neck, and one of his hands rested over Thorin’s for a moment, squeezing gently.

“Home,” he agreed, and then Thorin planted a soft kiss against the fabric covering his shoulder and eased away, taking the shopping up again.

“Now,” he said, as the rest of his family crowded into the hallway. “Kitchen?”

Everything had gone without a hitch, thanks to Gandalf, and it seemed that his cousins had left under the prompting of legal action with only loud complaints, and though the contents of his cutlery drawer seemed distinctly less than before, he thought he could take the loss of his spoons as little more than a petty annoyance in the face of reclaiming his home (though he would be sure to bring it up again at the next family party).

It almost felt anti-climactic, he couldn’t help but think as he took over preparation of lunch for them all, Dis slicing onions on one side of him and Frerin loading up his fridge with essentials on the other, too easy an outcome after so many long weeks of irritation and tension, after waiting so long to return home; if he had been hoping for some dramatic confrontation on his doorstep or in a courtroom, then he would have been disappointed. Like most cowards (for only a coward would only dare to try and take a house they thought they were owed when its occupant was comatose and unable to protest the hostile take-over), Lobelia and Otho had left with much grumbling but little actual fuss, slipping out of the house and back to their own lies with their tails planted very firmly between their legs.

And now the breeze was blowing in over the herb garden and into his kitchen, bringing the scent of the mint plants with it, and a nephew he hadn’t known he wanted was trying to catch the butterflies dancing around his buddleia tree in the garden, and his health was whole and a wonderful, beautiful man was dealing with the wiry, shifty-eyed red-head who had arrived to change his locks.

The only downside to the whole thing, really, was that soon enough Thorin would have to go home again, and the house would once more settle into the familiar, gentle quiet that solitude brings, a quiet that he had once felt entirely comfortable with; he knew, now, that it would never feel quite right again.

Thorin padded back in, and Bilbo smiled as he wrapped his arms around Bilbo’s middle once more, moulding himself to Bilbo’s back, nosing at his hair as he continued to prepare the prawns in the bowl in front of him.

“All done,” Thorin told him, his breath warm against Bilbo’s scalp. There was a gentle clatter as he dropped three sets of the new keys against the counter top, and Bilbo glanced at them for a moment. One for him, of course, and one for Hamfast, for safe-keeping (having a spare pair had proved unprecedentedly useful in the past, not that he planned on dropping into a coma again any time soon).

That still left a third.

Thorin’s thumb grazed against his stomach, back underneath Bilbo’s shirt again, and Frerin rolled his eyes, huffing in irritation as Vivi came in and promptly mirrored her brother-in-law with Dis, pressing a kiss against the back of the other woman’s neck.

“Oh, come on!” he complained. “Impressionable brother here, who doesn’t need to see any of his siblings snuggling, thanks all the same.”

Fili, who had followed his mother back inside with hopes of sneaking a treat of some kind, tugged on Frerin’s hand.  

“I’ll snuggle you, Uncle Frerin,” he told him, beaming up innocently at his Uncle, and Frerin sighed as the rest began to laugh. He scooped up Fili, snagging a biscuit from the jar he had been refilling and stuffing it into the young boy's mouth.

“Thanks,” he muttered, as Fili threw his arms around his Uncle’s neck. “This is much better than smooshy grown-up hugs, isn’t it?”

Fili nodded emphatically, but Bilbo rather suspected it was the biscuit that had swayed him, rather than Frerin’s hold.

“You should bring your girlfriend over next time,” said Bilbo, idly, finally deciding that it was the appropriate time and place for revenge. “That way you can have all the grown-up hugs you want.”

Thorin and Dis might have ended up with whiplash with how quickly they turned to stare at their brother, who looked for a moment like a deer caught in the headlights before he tried to hide his face behind Fili. Kili, from his place in the collapsible high-chair that Dis and Vivi had brought with them, crowed, as if he was relishing his Uncle’s embarrassment- because whilst Frerin wasn’t blushing, he had gone rather pale.

Bilbo smiled, a little smugly, down at his prawns as he finished, before reaching over for a fresh knife from the block and the long chorizo, to slice.

“ _Bilbo!_ ” he groaned, “You _promised._ ”

He could feel the vibrations of Thorin’s poorly-suppressed laughter through his back, and he smiled down at the chopping board.

“Sorry,” he said, though he was very aware that he was grinning, and didn’t sound very sincere. “Must have forgotten.”

Dis was beaming.

“Girlfriend?” she asked. “ _Girlfriend?_ All the details, please.”

Frerin groaned. “Must we?”

“If I recall,” said Thorin, as he nosed at Bilbo’s ear. “A similar thing was demanded of me some time ago."

“You told me nothing,” Frerin said, a little sulkily, as Fili stuck a finger in his ear.

“No,” admitted Thorin, “but then you barged your way into his hospital room to meet him instead.”

Frerin’s mouth opened in protest, and Bilbo snorted.

“Comatose, doesn’t count,” he quipped, and then they were all laughing again, even Fili, although he probably didn’t quite understand the joke. It felt _good,_ to be laughing about it, now that he was back here in his home and his life was slowly returning to normal. He’d never been the sort to dwell unduly on his misfortune once it was over, though he would admit to being the sort to complain along the way. Bilbo sent Frerin an apologetic glance.

“Sorry,” he told him, a little more genuinely this time. “But I rather had to get my own back.”

Frerin huffed. “I probably deserved it,” he admitted, sitting Fili down on the counter and sneaking him another biscuit, before sending Bilbo a teasing grin. “But I’ll still hold it against you.”

“More than acceptable,” Bilbo reassured him, still beaming, and Thorin’s arms tightened, just a little, around him. “But I reserve the right to complain when you do.”

Frerin nodded. “Deal.”

Luckily the conversation seemed to have moved passed the details of Frerin's love-life for the moment, though the glint in Thorin's eye and the teasing curve to Dis' mouth suggested that it would be revisited before too long. Everything prepared, Bilbo took out the wide, cast-iron paella dish and set to work on making them lunch; he hooked his arm around Thorin’s hip whilst the rice was simmering and the others had padded away to take over the living room, curling up in the wide, squishy sofas that had been there for as long as he could remember.

“Want to stay tonight?” he asked, quietly, and Thorin let out a low, relieved noise.

“Yes,” he answered, and in that moment Bilbo could hear that Thorin had been thinking about it just as much as he had, the silence of an empty home and the coolness of an empty bed; he’d spent just two nights wrapped firmly around Thorin’s body now, and the idea of sleeping alone was already one which sat a little uncomfortably with him.

He pulled Thorin a little closer, and then reached up to kiss him; Thorin’s hands were in his hair and Bilbo pressed him back, just a little, so the taller man was against the counter, steadying him so Bilbo could lean against his chest, pressing up his body to kiss him firmly. Thorin sighed a little against his mouth, his lips soft against Bilbo’s, one hand dropping from his hair to hold him firmly in place around his middle.  

Bilbo hummed contentedly, but then Thorin was pulling away, brushing their noses together.

“Your rice,” he said, his voice warm, so affectionate that Bilbo had to blink in surprise, because it sounded as if he had been about to say something else.

“What?” he asked, and Thorin laughed, letting him go.

“You’re rice, I think it’s burning.”

“Shit!”

He jumped away from Thorin, and thankfully the rice wasn’t burnt, just needed turning, though any longer and it would have been ruined. He rolled his eyes fondly as Thorin laughed, and shooed him away to the living room lest he distract him anymore from lunch; soon enough the paella was ready, chilled wine from the fridge poured and the only way that they could have made it perfect would have been if the sun had been out, and they had sat outside. Instead they settled for camping out in the armchairs and sofas of his living room, not bothering with the formalities of a dining table.

“It’s great,” said Dis, and Bilbo smiled.

“After so many dinner’s with you, I owe you a least a years’ worth of cooking.”

The beds had all been stripped, but his own bedding was still in the drawers, pressed and folded around the little silk bundles of dried herbs his mother used to make to keep linen fresh – they’d lost their scent years ago, but Bilbo had never thrown them away. You had to credit Lobelia for her cleanliness; there wasn’t a speck of dust to be found, and everything had been tidied meticulously away. Even the laundry still to be washed when he had gone into his coma had been cleaned and pressed, and hung up in his wardrobe.

He stared for a moment at his rows of shirts, his jackets, his trousers, and then in awe at his sock drawer – he’d almost forgotten what it was like living with more than the four pairs of socks Hamfast had hastily packed for him.

He would miss Thorin’s impressive power shower, he thought as he regarded his own, suspended above his  bath, a large, roll-top Victorian affair, free-standing in the middle of the large bathroom. And there were his own soaps, his own shampoos; there too his over-sized towels, thick and fluffy, in matching shades of cream and green. He found himself wandering from room to room, running hands over mantelpieces and cushions, his father’s carvings and his mother’s needlework, not quite able to put his finger on what was wrong. The rest left him to it after a while, perhaps seeing the strange, pensive look on his face, and deciding that he needed a little space.

There was the wide rocking-chair his father used to sit in, his mother curled up on his lap some evenings, and there the dried flowers from his mother’s wedding bouquet, pressed and framed upon the wall. She had so hoped to watch him marry, but there had never been the right person, the right time, the right moment; there had never been that hopeless and helpless feeling, that overwhelming desire to press not only bodies together but _lives_ as well, to make space for another in the careful world he had constructed around himself.

 _I’m sorry, Mother,_ he found himself thinking, as he stared at the delicate white roses, petals almost translucent with time now. _I found it too late for you to see. You’d love him, though._

Then a slightly sticky hand was pulling at his, and he looked down into wide, compassionate eyes, a smudge of chocolate on Fili’s cheek from yet another biscuit that his Uncle Frerin had sneaked out of the jar for him.

“Are you alright, Uncle Bilbo?” he asked, tugging a little at his hand. “You look sad.”

Bless and damn the perceptiveness of the young, he thought, as he ruffled Fili’s hair.

“I’m not sad, sweetpea,” he said, and it was quite true, for it was more a strange mood of nostalgia that had swept him as he reacquainted himself with his house, rather than sadness. “Just thinking about things.”

“What kind of things?” Fili asked, full of the bright curiosity of youth.

“Oh,” answered Bilbo, smiling a little. “All kinds of things, really.” _Falling in love, and the promise of a tomorrow I had never expected, and the way my mother’s eyes creased at the corners when she was happy with something; the smell of my father’s cigarettes on a warm summer evening and family, I suppose, and what that really means, and that the hips have come out on the dog rose whilst I’ve been away, and whether Thorin likes rosehip syrup, and what it would be like to have coffee with him in the morning in my own kitchen, every morning, and a third key that I don’t know what to do with._

And Fili’s eyes, such a striking blue-grey, threaded through with lines that were almost gold, looking up at him with such a comfortable assurance that it made something in his chest feel tight, made the locked away part of his heart loosen, just a little, with love, and it was only now, as he was looking at the remnants of his parents and their love that he realised just how scared he was of saying those words out loud, of looking at Thorin and kissing him and _telling him_ that he was in love with him.

Because he did love him. Quite impossibly.

“I bought some cake,” he told Fili, instead of telling him those things, because they were not the weights that you burden a child with. “Next time I’ll make you one, your favourite kind, but I didn’t have time today. Shall we go have a slice?”

Fili nodded, smiling still, and led Bilbo from the room.

 _Soon_ , he thought to himself. _Soon_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... honestly, I don't even know why these guys kiss in kitchens so often. I am no longer responsible for any of it.
> 
> I feel a good deal of this was inspired by my disappointment at the lack of Fili in the trailer. Sorry?


	33. Chapter 33

**08:19                     02/08/2014**  
To: Bilbo  
Morning.

 **08:24                     02/08/2014**  
From: Bilbo  
Urgh, is it morning already?

 **08:25                     02/08/2014**  
To: Bilbo  
Unfortunately. How are you?

 **08:27                     02/08/2014**  
From: Bilbo  
I’m okay. The house seems bigger than I remembered. How are you?

 **08:31                     02/08/2014**  
To: Bilbo  
Fine. Felt odd waking up in an empty flat today.

 **08:31                     02/08/2014**  
From: Bilbo  
I miss you, too. Come over tonight?

 **08:33                     02/08/2014**  
To: Bilbo  
Closing the shop tonight. I’ll be there by half seven.

 **08:34                     02/08/2014**  
From: Bilbo  
Can’t wait.

 **08:35                     02/08/2014**  
To: Bilbo  
Want me to bring anything?

 **08:37                     02/08/2014**  
From: Bilbo  
Just yourself.

 **08:41                     02/08/2014**  
To: Bilbo  
Not a pizza?

 **08:42                     02/08/2014**  
From: Bilbo  
You’re better.

 **08:43                     02/08/2014**  
To: Bilbo  
I’ll take that as the compliment it is.

 **08:45                     02/08/2014**  
From: Bilbo  
You should. I hold pizza in very high regard.

 **08:48                     02/08/2014**  
To: Bilbo  
I’ll see you tonight.

 **08:51                     02/08/2014**  
From: Bilbo  
Can’t wait.

 

\--

 

Whilst most of the house had been left spotless, there was one room that was most definitely not. 

His office was a disaster, he thought a little glumly as he caught sight of the drawers he had ransacked for his important folders when he had popped in, when he had still been at the hospital. Luckily it seemed that Lobelia had not been able to gain access to the room, but it had not been in the neatest of states to begin with, and it also meant that she had not dusted the shelves or wiped down the sides, as she had the rest of the house. There were envelopes scattered across the floor, and spiders had taken refuge above the bookcases, and he set to work with a contented feeling. 

It was the first real job he had undertaken since coming back to his house, and the first morning he had woken up alone. Thorin had stayed the first night, and then the second, and then the whole weekend until Sunday afternoon had rolled around and the other man had extracted himself from the hold of both Bilbo’s warm arms and his deep armchairs, the allure of food and lazy Irish coffees on the patio, and had headed back to his own home to finish off the designs he should have been working on all weekend.

Bilbo had soaked in the bath then, for rather more hours than was strictly necessary, trying to ignore the slight hollow feeling in his chest as the music from his battered old CD player echoed around, and when he had gone to sleep after dinner, unable to resist the the siren calls of his three course meal and a rather comfortable bed, he had found himself tossing and turning for quite some time despite his fatigue, fingers twisting in the sheets to stop himself from reaching for something that would not be there.

He sighed as he turned over a pen in his hands; was it strange that after only a night apart, he missed Thorin already?

There was a quiet rattle somewhere in the house, and he glanced upwards at his study door as he heard it again. It wasn’t particularly loud, and he might have not heard it at all had the CD he was listening to not come to an end several minutes before. It took a moment to place it, but then he realised: someone was trying to open his back door, the one that he usually kept open, though today it was still locked from the night before.

Someone was trying to get in.

“Hello?” he called, before realising how stupid he was being, and getting to his feet, padding quietly down the hallway.

Someone trying to break in before ten in the morning seemed a little bit absurd, as did the possibility of a homeless person looking for a place to sleep - this was a nice, quiet neighbourhood, not the kind of place you would risk trying to get in to a house with a car in the driveway. Hamfast always knocked, and had popped around yesterday at any rate, and Thorin was at work. There was no reason anyone would try to get in through the back door unless-

Unless perhaps Lobelia had decided to come back for something more than the teaspoons.

He wasn’t in the mood for a confrontation, for a dog fight over his rosemary bush, but neither could he simply hide behind his curtains and pretend that he wasn’t home – as tempting as it might have been to do so. Perhaps he might eventually weary enough of annoying relatives to duck under the windows to avoid them seeing him, but today was not that day.

“Lobelia, I-” he started as he unlocked and pulled open the back door, only to be met with the view of his garden.

“Oh,” he trailed off, but then a scuffling noise from behind a large shrub made him glance in its direction, only to see little red converse shoes sticking out from behind it.

“Fee?” he asked, his mind leaping to the only small child he knew off hand. “What are you-”

But then a head popped out, and it wasn’t Fili’s messy blonde hair, but chestnut curls neatly dampened and brushed down against his head, though several had corkscrewed out already. Earnest, hazel eyes stared up at Bilbo, a little afraid, and he felt his shoulders slumping.

“Lotho?” he asked, after a moment. “What on earth are you doing here?”

His mouth opened, his forehead pulled into a scowl, but then his lip was wobbling and his mouth was pulling downwards and Bilbo found himself taking a half-step in his direction, arms already opening, and then his arms were full of a young boy, tears already soaking through his shirt to rest, damp, against the skin of his stomach.

He ran his hand through Lotho’s hair, thoroughly messing up the neat brushstrokes and turning it back into the unruly curls that ran in his family. A small drop of rain hit his nose, the flags cold against his bare feet, and he looked up at the sky with worry.

“Come on then,” he said, gently. “Inside with you, and you can tell me what you are doing here.”

Lotho sniffed, and stuck close to his side as he followed Bilbo into to kitchen, where he cut a thick slice of the raspberry-chocolate cake he had made the day before (ostensibly to feed up Thorin, but also a little for himself, as well), poured a large glass of milk, and took them both through to the living room, placing them on the coffee table and patting at an armchair, inviting Lotho to sit down.

He needed, he thought, idly, a sofa in his kitchen, given how much time he spent in there, like Dis and Vivi had in theirs.

Lotho rubbed at his eyes, and continued to sniff as he picked at his cake; Bilbo stared up at the clock, and wondered where the young boy was supposed to be. Not school, surely, for it was August, and the schools had let out over a week ago, but Lobelia would have known he had gone if he was supposed to have been at home. A summer club, perhaps?

“How did you get here, Lotho?” he asked, when the sniffling stopped, the young boy had scrubbed impatiently at his eyes, and most of the cake was gone.

“M’walked,” he mumbled, looking down at his shoes.

“From where?”

“Mama dropped me off at summer classes,” he admitted, glances quickly up at Bilbo from underneath his eyelashes. “I _hate_ summer classes.”

Bilbo laughed, amused despite himself. Lobelia had always been quite convinced that she would have the best of everything, and that, apparently, also included her son. No doubt Lotho had been sent to summer classes since he first started school, to improve his spelling and his maths and his writing, rather than getting to spend any time doing something he might enjoy.

“Where do you do your classes?” he asked, wondering how far Lotho had walked.

“The community centre,” he said, his legs swinging. “Mmm, by the river?”

Bilbo nodded; he knew it, though he was sure that it had a proper name as well, and it was no more than five minutes away, so at least Lotho hadn't gone far. There were a number of free classes for all ages that went on throughout the summer, though he had never heard of anyone as young as Lotho being sent to them. He wondered if there was anyone the same ago as him there, anyone he might have been able to forge a friendship with, and rather suspected that there might not be. No doubt he just spent his days sat working through comprehension exercises and maths problems by himself, handed them in to a teacher, and went home again.

“And why are you here now?” Bilbo asked, and Lotho’s voice began to quaver again almost immediately.

“Mama said we had to go and that you said we couldn’t come back,” he admitted, the words pouring out of him in a rush. “But I left my box, Uncle Bilbo, and Dad said it wasn’t you, it was _our_ fault for moving in, but I didn’t do anything, and then they had a fight and now they’re not talking and I don’t want to go to summer school and I don’t want to come home and I want to come back here because Mama was _happy_ when we were here and I miss my Rex and, and-”

He trailed off then as broke down, his heavy breathing perpetuated by the broken noises of half-sobs, his eyes red and close to crying, and Bilbo slipped to the floor by the armchair on his knees, not sure entirely what he was supposed to do in this sort of situation, but reaching to rub soothingly at Lotho’s arms all the same.

“It’s no one’s fault,” he said, gently, “no one’s at all. Your Mama just didn’t know I’d be coming back, that’s all. And your Mama and Dad will make up soon, I’m sure. But in the meantime, tell me – what box?”

Lotho sighed, and his voice sounded raw, so Bilbo passed him his milk. He wiped his upper lip once he was done, and took a deep breath.

“From my room, Uncle Bilbo – in the secret drawer in the wardrobe. I hid my box and my Rex in there, but then when I came home from summer school Mama had packed everything up and she wouldn’t let me go back to get it, she didn’t know there was a secret drawer, and-”

Bilbo felt his heart twist; he’d not thought about his secret drawer for years, not since he was a teenager and used to hide his cigarettes in there. Lotho must have been put in the room Bilbo had been in an a child, with the built in wardrobe- on the floor of it, underneath a floorboard, was a hidden, open space; he’d put in an old, square drawer when he was just a kid, to keep hidden and secret things in. Bird feathers and toy cars at first, then zippo lighters and chocolate, then hip flasks and bottle openers; they all ran through his mind quite suddenly, a montage of his childhood years. 

He wiped at Lotho's eyes with his cuff. 

"Lets go and see if we can find them then, shall we?" he asked, and Lotho nodded, jumping to his feet and following Bilbo timidly down the hallway, passing his current bedroom (he'd moved to the bigger guest room when he was about eighteen, wanting more space) and the office before they got to his old one.

“Go on then,” he said, as they hovered in the doorway, and Lotho dived for the wardrobe, unhooking the floorboard and pulling a plastic dinosaur out of it – Rex, presumably – and an old, slightly rusted tin box, the sort that might have been passed down to him from his father. He shook it, gently, before opening the lid and checking the contents.

It was only then that he was distracted, and glanced up at Bilbo, looking embarrassed.

“It’s all still there,” he said in a small voice, and Bilbo smiled.

“What, did you think I was going to steal it?”

“Mama took some of your spoons,” he replied, his voice even quieter now, and he shuffled his feet a little.

“Yeah,” said Bilbo, "but don’t worry. I’m going to get even better ones, to annoy her.”

Lotho laughed, and rubbed at his nose.

“Now, how about we take you back down to summer school, before your Mama sees that you are missing?”

Lotho nodded, though he looked a little unhappy with the idea, and followed Bilbo down the hall and back out the house, the older man snagging keys on his way. They walked quietly down the road in the morning sunshine, the dinosaur and box still held close to his chest.

"So," said Bilbo, lightly. "Your dad was telling me how well you were doing in school, last time I saw him. Are you still getting good marks on your homework?"

Lotho nodded, his hands running over the plastic back of the toy and the metal lid of the box, as if afraid that they might disappear. 

"I got all A's on my report at the end of school," he said, a little proudly. 

"Well done," answered Bilbo, ruffling his hair. “Does your Mama ever come into your classes?” Bilbo asked. “Does she ever speak to the teachers?”

Lotho shook his head. “She just drops me off and picks me up.”

Bilbo hummed.

“Is there anything you would like to do, rather than your classes now?”

Lotho screwed up his nose. “I don’t want to do more maths.”

Bilbo laughed. “No, no more maths. Anything else.”

Lotho scuffed his shoes along the pavement a little.

“They do drawing classes, too.”

Bilbo nodded, and didn’t mention it again. Lotho led him in, and through the corridors to a large classroom, populated only by a small number of rather unhappy looking children working in silence – as he had thought, all of them quite a bit older than Lotho.

“You have a lunch break, right?”

Lotho nodded.

“At one.”

“How about I come round and pick you up tomorrow, and we’ll have more cake, alright?”

Lotho nodded, a sudden flush of a blush across his face, and Bilbo ruffled his hair fondly as he propelled him into the room: once he was sure that his young charge was seated, he found the front desk, and changed Lotho’s schedule from the ‘Maths and English preparation’ class to the ‘Art for children’ one, and left feeling much better.

He texted Otho, because it would have been wrong not to, and received only a brief, clipped reply.

 

 **02/08/14              12:01**  
From: Otho  
Thanks, Bilbo. And, I’m sorry. For everything.

 

He didn’t need anything more than that; as he set about tidying his office again he felt distinctly lighter, some weight of guilt he hadn’t realised he was carrying having lifted a little, and the afternoon passed quickly.

Before he knew it five o’clock had rolled around, the heavy clouds had blotted out the afternoon sunlight, and everything was back where it should be and presentable again, apart from himself.

Bilbo was covered in dust, and set off with a wry smile to the bathroom, unhooking the handing spider plant to water it as he waited for the shower to warm up. It was still hurting the back of his thighs to climb in and out of the bed, not full up to the strength they had once been still, though so damnably close.

Thorin would be over in a couple of hours, and he would make him dinner – he had the ingredients in to make pizza from scratch, like he had promised, and they could eat in the living room or in the bedroom, depending on whether or not they were able to keep from falling in to bed before it was done.

And then tonight, he thought, he’d tell him; he didn’t know exactly how or when, but he would admit that he loved him, that he had loved him for a while, that he needed Thorin to know even if he didn’t feel the same way. And then-

Well, then he’d have to see. He didn’t know what response he would get.

He switched the shower off, running hands through his hair to dislodge the excess water, and stretched one leg a little to try and loosen it off.

The porcelain was a little slippery underfoot.

He closed his eyes against the steam, and reached for his towel, hanging off the heated rail nearby.

His foot skidded, and he reached for the tap, for the side, for something to use to balance himself, but his perception was off, his fingertips just skimmed them as he flailed, and then his thigh cramped and his knee collapsed underneath him, and he fell, swearing as he did so.

His head the side of the roll-top bath with a thunk, and he stared blearily up at the pale green ceiling for a moment.

Then everything was black.


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second chapter of the day, although it barely counts as a chapter, but it really wont make sense without reading the first.

_1 Missed Call: Otho_

_2 Missed Calls: Otho_

_1 Missed Call: Thorin_

_2 Missed Call: Thorin_

 

 **19:38                     02/08/14**  
From: Thorin  
I’m outside. 

 **19:39                     02/08/14**  
From: Thorin  
Hello?

 

_3 Missed Calls: Thorin_

 

 **19:42                     02/08/14**  
From: Thorin  
Hey, come answer the door?

 **19:45                     02/08/14**  
From: Thorin  
Bilbo?

 

_4 Missed Calls: Thorin_

 

 **19:49                     02/08/14**  
From: Thorin  
If you’ve gone to sleep I’ll be so annoyed.

 

_5 Missed Calls: Thorin_

_6 Missed Calls: Thorin_

 

 **19:52                     02/08/14**  
From: Thorin  
I’m heading home, call me if you wake up.

 

_3 Missed Calls: Otho_

_7 Missed Calls: Thorin_

_1 Missed Call: Frerin_

_1 Missed Call: Gandalf_

_8 Missed Calls: Thorin_

 

 **20:11                     02/08/14**  
From: Thorin  
You’re going to tell off for worrying when I find you asleep on the sofa, but I’m trying the back door.  


	35. Chapter 35

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... wow. I actually didn't expect a reaction like that at all, and I'm not sure whether I should hug you all, apologise, or laugh manically. So I might do all of them at once?

_There was the buzzing of Frerin’s voice, in his ear, but he couldn’t really hear it._

_The kitchen smelt of basil and dough, a puff of flour in the air as his elbow brushed the counter._

_He called, and his voice sounded strange to himself._

_A few flecks of rain hit the window, and no one replied._

_There was mobile, Bilbo’s mobile, on the floor in the hallway._

_Why was it in the hallway?_

_The drip of water from someone down the hallway._

_He followed the noise, the only noise, to the bathroom; the shower was only partially switched off, a thin stream of water still coursing down into the tub._

_He reached, to switch it off, but then a bright splash of red on the white caught his eye._

_Bilbo was not in the house, but there was blood on the side of the bathtub._

 

\--

 

Bilbo first became aware that anything was particularly wrong when he was wheeled back from having a number of scans done on his head to find Thorin and Frerin hotly arguing with the nurse outside his room, demanding, it seemed, to know precisely where Bilbo was and what was wrong with him. The nurse, a rather polite man who was just starting to grey around the temples, looked rather exhausted as he tried to explain to the pair that he couldn’t tell them anything, legally speaking, as they were neither family nor next of kin, and they did not appear to be taking the news very well.

“Don’t worry, Bard,” he called out to the nurse, wincing as they passed under a rather bright light that sent a wave of pain through his head, though it was distinctly less than it had been several hours before. “I know them, it is quite alright.”

Bard nodded, opening the door to Bilbo’s room and ushering the pair in, though he was still giving Thorin a slightly unfriendly look. Bilbo wondered what, exactly, had been said before he had arrived. Thorin looked positively incensed, and expression he had only ever caught shades of before: anger and frustration seemed to have left his face in a harsh rictus, and for the first time Bilbo could see why someone might find the other man intimidating. He looked as though some primordial hand had carved him from stone.

“Are you alright?” he asked Thorin, as the nurse pushing his bed parked it in place in the center of the room. “Sorry I couldn’t call to tell you I wouldn’t be in, I-“

“I didn’t know where you were!” Thorin’s tone was as harsh as his expression, his face pulled into a deep, angry frown.

“Sorry, I called an ambulance and then had to sit down,” he answered, only now really noticing the tension humming down every line of Thorin’s body, and he tilted his head to one side, looking up at him. “Are _you_ alright?”

Thorin didn’t even really seem to hear him.

“All they told us, when we figured out that you were here, was that you were being kept for possible head trauma, I thought…” he trailed off, glancing down at the floor. “How could you be so careless?”

Bilbo’s eyebrows jumped into his hairline; whilst he understood that Thorin’s reaction was born more of fear and frustration than anything else, it was still a little out of line, and his head hurt far too much for him to try and temper Thorin’s anger like he might have done at any other time.

“Calm down, would you?” he replied, doing his best to bite back his irritation and to keep his voice soothing. “Everything is alright, I just slipped in the shower-”

“There is no ‘just’ when you end up back in the fucking hospital!”

Thorin’s fists were balled at his sides now, and Bilbo felt a stab of his own irritation, cutting through the fog of his painkillers.

“Look, would you stop yelling at me? I get that you’re upset, but you need to relax, I-”

 _“I love you_ , you can’t expect me to just calm down when I turn up at your house and there is no one there, just _blood_ on the floor and your phone left in the hallway, and I can’t get in touch with you and I’ve got no idea where you might have gone-”

Bilbo glared up at him.

“Oh come on, where do you think I would have gone? What, did you think Lobelia had kidnapped me in order to get my house back?”

He watched the flicker in Thorin’s eyes, the one that showed quite clearly that _all_ the worst case scenarios had been running through his mind, and he snorted. “You’re ridiculous!”

“I was worried!” Thorin snapped back, but his hands were relaxing and his tone was less sharp now, hollower somehow.

“I know you were!” replied Bilbo, as Frerin shuffled uncomfortably between them. “I’d have been worried too! But I can’t change it and everything is okay so will you just _calm down._ ”

“I am calm!”

Frerin cleared his throat. “Thorin, I-”

His brother cut him off before he could finish whatever it was he was planning on saying. “Leave it, Frerin,” he snapped, before turning to the door and storming out, slamming it quite decisively behind him.

Frerin sighed, leaning back against the wall and casting a baleful look at the door, before turning his attention back to Bilbo.

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine. I’m tired. I’m…” he trailed off, not exactly sure _what_ he was right now. Frerin seemed to notice this and pushed himself back off the wall, padding over to the pitcher of water on the table.

“You want some water?”

Bilbo sighed, and rubbed at his eyes.

“Please.”

Frerin hummed a little as he poured, and passed Bilbo the glass.

“I didn’t realise you and Thorin were at the ‘I love you’ stage,” he commented, idly, and Bilbo huffed a wry little laugh.

“Neither did I,” he answered, taking a long draught to hide his frustration.

“I- Oh.”

Frerin stood, a little awkwardly, in silence for a while, as Bilbo took long breaths and did his best to calm himself.

“It’s strange,” Frerin said, glancing up at the ceiling. “I don’t think Thorin’s ever called me to ask for advice before.”

Bilbo stared at him, a little bemused. “What?”

Frerin nodded, reaching over to top up Bilbo’s water glass.

“He called me after he went in your house, to ask if… well, I’m not sure what he was asking, really. I think he just needed to hear someone tell him it would be okay, though he didn’t say that.”

Bilbo’s shoulders sagged, a little.

“And then he asked me what he should do, and I told him I’d call the hospital and see if you’d been admitted.”

Bilbo nodded. “I woke up a few minutes after hitting my head,” he told Frerin, “and called the ambulance- I’d have driven, but I was still feeling a little dizzy.”

“Good idea,” Frerin said. “I don’t think we’d want to add a car crash to your list of recent accidents. But the hospital said you hadn’t been admitted, though apparently that was just because your paperwork hadn’t been processed, and you hadn’t shown up on the system yet.”

Bilbo glanced up at the clock, which read a quarter to one in the morning.

“So it took us some time to work out where you were. In the end we just came down here anyway, to double check ourselves, and your friend Beorn saw us and recognized Thorin – apparently he was double-shifting in A&E when you were admitted.”

Bilbo nodded, vaguely remembering, though it had all been something of a haze. He had waited for some time to have his head stitched up until someone along the line had caught sight of his medical history and realised that, being only a few months out of a coma, he was on the red-list for head injuries, and needed immediate attention. The hours had flown by after that as he had been admitted, the cut on his head checked, waited for tests, and had been offered painkillers.

He had been worried enough, and he had known where he was and that he would be fine after a bit of rest; Thorin hadn't known anything at all.

There was a quiet knock on the door, and for a moment his heart leapt, but then it was being pushed open not by Thorin but by a rather tired looking, grey-haired doctor, who frowned at Frerin before greeting Bilbo rather loudly.

"Umm, hello," Bilbo offered, wincing a little at the volume.

“Now,” said the doctor, twisting his hearing aid so that it was on properly. “Your tests are back, there is no swelling or any other problem, but since you lost consciousness we want to keep you in for observation for the rest of the night, okay? Just in case there is any concussion or any problems that might appear later.”

Bilbo nodded, rather enthusiastically. One night was more than acceptable compared to his previous visit. 

“Visiting hours are over, you know,” he told Frerin balefuly, glancing at him out of the corner of his eye, but Frerin just grinned cheerfully and made no move to leave, and in the end the doctor just cleared his throat and turned back to the patient.

“At any rate, you can sleep now, which might be a good idea, given the time. But a nurse will be in every couple of hours, to check your responsiveness, alright?”

“Of course,” Bilbo replied. “Thank you.”

The doctor shot Frerin one more exasperated look and then was gone, shutting the door quietly behind him. Bilbo caught just a glimpse of the empty corridor and something in his chest tightened, missing Thorin quite terribly all of a sudden. He rather needed someone to kiss his forehead and tell him that he’d be fine, for all that he logically knew that to be the case already: and damned if he was going to ask Frerin to oblige.

“It’s funny,” came Frerin’s voice, cutting through his thoughts. “You look just the way he does when he’s thinking about you, right now. A little lost and a little hopeful and a little scared, all at the same time.”

Bilbo tucked his knees up to his chest, resting his chin on them, and didn’t reply. Frerin ran a hand through his hair, and leant back against the wall again.

“You know, I think he would have liked to have been the one who found you,” he said, after a long moment. “Thorin, I mean. Not so he could sweep in and carry you out in his arms like some dashing hero, not so he could’ve saved the day, but so he could do _something_. He doesn’t react well, to not doing anything, to not being _able_ to do anything.”

“I know,” said Bilbo, feeling suddenly very tired. “I _know_ he was frustrated that he hadn’t helped me, but it isn't some obligation.”

“But it is,” Frerin cut in, before Bilbo could say any more. “No matter how much you might say otherwise, when you love someone, it will _always_ feel like your job to save them. If the situation were reversed, don’t you think you would feel guilty if you hadn’t been there?”

“I would,” Bilbo agreed, without hesitation, and then sighed, his annoyance slipping away all the more at the realisation.

“You know, he’s been looking after people since he was nineteen? It was him that took me to get my stomach pumped when I got alcohol poisoning on my seventeenth birthday, it was him that talked Dis through coming out of the closet to the family when she was sixteen. He was the one who pushed Dwalin into going to get his degree, and it was him that helped Balin through his divorce; he talked Vivi through her cold-feet before her and Dis’ wedding and he taught Fili how to walk on crutches when he sprained his ankle last year.

“When I first went to university I got so homesick I ended up calling him half in tears, and he drove hours in the middle of the night to come and talk me through it. He was the one who dealt with the doctors when Dis was in hospital when Kili was born; he was the one who sat up with me all night when I was still touch and go after I was stabbed. _He was there,_ that was the point, and that’s the difference with you- _he wasn’t._ And he never has been- he was sitting with you and smuggling in pizza but he wasn't _helping you,_ not as far as he was concerned, and that was fine when you were improving, but he wasn’t there when you fell, and he can’t cope with that.”

Bilbo frowned. “What are you saying?”

Frerin shook his head. “I’m not trying to imply anything. I’m just trying to get you to understand who he is and what he’s been through, because to be honest he’s shit with it and won’t be able to himself. And don’t get me wrong, he was a prick and he owes you an apology, but… he means well. Honestly. And he loves you, and I love him, and I want _him_ to have someone that understands him, for him.”

And the thing was, Bilbo could understand, he honestly could.

He’d never let Thorin help, had never let him get too close, and hadn’t Thorin tried to tell him, that day they had gone to the beach, that it wasn’t pity that made him reach out to steady Bilbo’s arm. It wasn’t pity, it was compassion, it was hope, it was affection, it was _love._

And here Bilbo had been, frantically trying to figure out how to tell Thorin, whether or not he would feel the same way, when all along it had been there, quietly growing, building, forming, just ready to spread itself out for them to acknowledge. Love never appears out of thin air; love grows, and trying to plan a time to acknowledge it was pointless. You just have to stumble along until you can't help but say it out loud, tripping over the words with the weight of your feeling.

His chest felt warm with love, his annoyance entirely forgotten, his head hurt and his heart ached and now Frerin was looking at him with amusement in his eyes, shaking his head slightly.

“He’ll come back soon,” he assured Bilbo. “He’ll just be cooling off.”

“I’ve never really seen him angry,” said Bilbo, with a smile, because he could _not_ stop smiling now. “Not really. He only ever stormed out of a room once before, and that was because _I_ yelled at him. I suppose we’re going full circle with this hospital.”

Frerin just shrugged one shoulder lazily.

“He doesn’t get angry often,” he said, “though it is always impressive when he does. He used to fight with our father all the time, before. He tried to keep it in once it was just the three of us."

Bilbo reached out, then, and took Frerin's hand, squeezing it, and Frerin smiled at the floor.

"Think you can sleep?”

Bilbo nodded, the contentment in his heart easing him. “Probably. You should go home, and get some rest yourself,” he replied, glancing at the clock on the wall, that read closer to two am- far too late to still be awake and sober, as far as he was concerned. “Sorry you’ve had to stay this long.”

But to his surprise, Frerin didn’t nod, and head for the door; instead, he threw himself down in the chair beside Bilbo’s bed, shrugging out of his leather jacket and draping it haphazardly over his chest.

“I got the whole story out of him in the end, you know,” said Frerin, rolling his shoulders in the chair. “About how he accidentally ended up in your room, months ago, when Kee was born. And I think the thing that upset him the most, the thing that still upsets him the most, is that the nurse told him you didn’t get many visitors, and that when you did wake up, you woke up alone. He would have liked to have been there, I think, even if you wouldn’t have known him.”

Bilbo’s hands fisted in the sheets of his bed, twisting the fabric in his fingers.

“And if you think,” Frerin continued, propping his feet up on the frame of Bilbo’s bed and pointing accusingly at him, “That any of us are going to leave you to wake up in a hospital alone, ever again, then you really need to get your head examined.”

His eyes flickered down to the clipboard at the end of the bed, where the results from actual cranial and brain examinations were, and pulled a face.

“You know what I mean,” he said, and Bilbo huffed a small, quiet laugh.

“Now go to sleep,” said Frerin, reaching over and switching off the main light with the long cord that hung beside the bed. “It is stupid o’clock and I need some shut-eye, and more to the point, so do you.”

He closed his eyes then, quite decisively, though he peeped again when Bilbo started laughing.

“Alright,” he answered. “Sleep it is.”

And sleep came quickly, thankfully, the dark night wrapping around him and pulling him down.

 

\--

 

The night passed, the sun rose, and Thorin sat in hospital foyer ignoring the bustle of the people around him, ignoring the noise and the press of bodies as people rushed through the door towards A&E, staring down at his hands instead.

He was angry, he was hurt, he was frustrated; mostly, now, at himself, but he wasn't quite ready to admit that out loud. 

 _He's alright_ , he repeated to himself over and over again. _He's alright, it was just a scare, the blood in the bath wasn't as bad as he thought it would be, just a cut on the back of his head and a few moments of unconsciousness according to Beorn, who probably shouldn't have told them anything, he's fine._

Thorin tried to breathe, but the taste of the antiseptic and bleach in the air caught in his throat, bringing a wave of nausea. 

He rubbed at his tired eyes with his fists even as the coil of anger that had held his chest tight slowly began to unwind, slowly began to loosen its hold over his heart and his thoughts, and he could see clearly that it _wasn’t_ anger, not really, but fear that had made him snap at Bilbo, fear that had made him stare senselessly at the road as he had driven to the hospital, fear that had made him blurt out that he loved Bilbo in the middle of an _argument,_  to try and make him understand how hard it had been to think about losing him.

He loved him, and he’d _yelled_ it at him.

He could almost _hear_ Dis lecturing him on proper social etiquette.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, warning him of low battery, and he pulled it out, glancing down at the screen as he did so, which was still open to the text conversation between him and Bilbo. The last message Bilbo had sent him, earlier that day, and he had never even replied; he might’ve _died,_ and he would never have replied to his last text.

And now no doubt Bilbo was furious with him, or upset, and that would probably be worse, and Thorin didn’t even know how to begin apologising or whether he even should, whether he should just leave…

But no, he knew he couldn’t; he needed to see him. 

The hours wore on like this, Thorin hunched over in the hard, plastic chair, until the early morning rolled around again, and though Thorin felt tired his mind was too wired to even contemplate sleeping. 

Sunlight hit the windows of the hospital foyer, and Thorin realised the bustle had died down at little, that it was almost time for the day to start again, properly.

There was the sound of unlocking from near to him, unusual enough that it disturbed him from his thoughts, and he glanced to his side, trying to find the source of it.

It was the young boy he had bought flowers from before, the one with the earnest smile and the red-brown hair, opening up the gift-shop, and he caught Thorin’s eye before offering him a small, uncertain smile.

“Hullo,” he said, a little hesitantly. “I’ve not seen you in a while. Were you after more flowers?”

Thorin’s mouth opened, just a little; then, to the boy's surprise, he smiled.

 

\--

 

Bilbo was woken several times through the night, by the nurses, but each time he just let them check his eyes and answered the quiet questions they asked him before slipping back to sleep, without even lifting his head from the pillow. Eventually though he woke himself, naturally, though he could not have told you what it was stirred him; the late-morning light was pooling in behind the thin curtains, and the room was a little cold, though he wasn't sure it was either of those that had brought him back to waking.

He blinked, a little blearily, at the line of vases along the table, the ones that had definitely not been there the night before, and the flowers pouring out of them, still a little fuggy from sleep and from painkillers.

Tulips.

His mouth opened, just a little.

Calla lilies.

White roses.

Freesias. 

Peonies. 

Orchids. 

Sunflowers.

His hand clamped over his mouth to muffle what might have been a laugh, but could have been a sob.

There, nearest to him, was one vase full of tulips, variegated ones, oranges and yellows blending together, like the flowers he dimly remembered seeing the first time he had woken up, here in the hospital, when he had been asleep for so long, and he hadn’t know who had left them but they had comforted him, with their bright cheerfulness, the sunlight glowing through the petals and the glass of the vase catching the light, and-

A smile curved over his face, quite suddenly, and he glanced down the bed. There was a broad, tall body still in the chair, slumped over the bed now, asleep against the covers, but it had darker hair than Frerin.

“Hey,” Bilbo said gently, reaching down the bed to stroke Thorin’s hair. “You’ll hurt your back, sleeping like that.”

Thorin started awake, his eyes immediately tracing the lines of Bilbo’s face, his shoulders, his arms, as if making sure that everything was still okay.

He didn’t say anything, but there was a downwards curve to his mouth, a frown still ghosting on his brow, and Bilbo offered a small smile.

“There’s room up here, you know,” he said, his voice still pitched low, as if he were afraid of being overheard. “It’ll be tight, but…”

He trailed off, but his eyes were hopeful, and Thorin seemed to realise what he was asking.

It was a little small, for two people, but Thorin moulded his front to Bilbo’s back, his knees tucked in with Bilbo’s, his forehead resting against the back of Bilbo’s neck, not seeming to care that the wayward curls of his hair were brushing over his skin.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, now he could not see Bilbo’s eyes, and the other man smiled as he pulled Thorin’s arm over and around him, intertwining their fingers, shrugging closer.

“Tired,” he said, as his eyes flickered closed despite themselves. “And a little cold.”

Thorin’s body immediately pressed closer, his arm tucking itself even more securely around Bilbo, his nose rubbing a slow circle around a protrusion of Bilbo’s vertebrae near the top of his spine.

“I like the flowers,” Bilbo said, even quieter now. “Thank you.”

Thorin hummed, and kissed his spine, and stroked his thumb along Bilbo’s hand.

“You didn’t need to buy so many though.”

Thorin made a small, sad noise.

“Couldn’t pick just one,” he answered, and Bilbo laughed, a little.

Every type of flower that Thorin had bought him when he was in here the first time, from the first to the last, were laid out before him now, in a silent and colourful apology. 

“I don’t know how I’ll get them all home,” he said, and Thorin nosed his hair.

“I’ll help you,” he said, and his voice was low and hoarse in the dim morning light. “And then I’ll fix your back door.”

“What did you do to my back door?” Bilbo asked, sleepily, fatigue creeping over him as Thorin traced patterns on his hand.

“Doesn’t matter,” replied Thorin. “Your neighbour is keeping an eye on the place.”

Bilbo laughed, just a little, and tucked his feet around Thorin’s.

“Okay,” he said, not bothering to press when sleep was so close.

There was a long, slow moment as their breathing settled into rhythm, their chests moving against each other’s in tandem.

“I thought you might have died,” mumbled Thorin against his skin, nosing at the curve of his trapezius. “I thought-“

“I know,” replied Bilbo, and he tugged at Thorin’s hand, bringing it up to his mouth to kiss their intertwined fingers. "It's okay."

“M’sorry,” Thorin said eventually, after a long silence, unsure and a little sad, and Bilbo smiled, even though Thorin couldn’t see it.

“It’s alright,” he replied, as gently as he could. He could feel Thorin’s breath against the skin of his neck, slow and unsteady, as if he were struggling to keep his emotions under check.  

“Hey, Thorin?”

“Hmm?” came the reply, more of a noise felt through Bilbo’s chest than a word heard, a little ragged, as if it were Thorin in pain, not Bilbo.

Something warm and bright curled in his chest, some burst of hope and happiness that had no place in A&E but was there anyway, unwilling to leave.

“I love you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now that's over with, have a gentle push in the direction of some beautiful things that have been drawn for this, because I am a very lucky author indeed. :)
> 
> http://shamingcows.tumblr.com/post/92589107273/rough-sketch-from-yesterdays-ls-for-the-most  
> http://shamingcows.tumblr.com/post/93686734228/and-filis-eyes-such-a-striking-blue-grey  
> http://radiorcrist.tumblr.com/post/93654974911/when-a-fic-update-ends-with-a-painful-cliffhanger  
> http://kurosmind.tumblr.com/post/93627745476/because-of-northerntrashs-one-sided
> 
> Thank you so much, you guys :3 You're all amazing. <3


	36. Chapter 36

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come hit me up on tumblr if you want to ask anything. :) http://northerntrash.tumblr.com/

“Ahem.”

Bilbo started awake even as Thorin’s arms tightened around his mid-section, pulling him closer against his chest. He was warm, and he was comfortable, and for a moment he was not sure what had woken him from the softness of a deep, good sleep. He glanced, a little blearily, around himself, a throbbing ache in his head and a strange sense of displacement as he tried to work out where exactly he was.

“Sorry, Mr Baggins?”

He struggled out of Thorin’s arms only to nearly fall off the bed, too narrow by half to really accommodate two people, particularly one who was as broad across the shoulders as Thorin was; he ended up sitting with Thorin’s arms still slung around his lap, his head almost resting on Bilbo’s thigh. The taller man pressed even closer in his sleep, despite Bilbo’s attempts to extract himself, one knee hooking over Bilbo’s in an unconscious effort to keep him trapped to be bed- in all fairness, he felt very little desire to try and escape, for all that he was shifting awkwardly in the face of the person who had let themselves into the room, presumably to wake him to check his responsiveness, or else to run more tests.

And wasn’t it just a little embarrassing, to be caught snuggling with another person in a hospital bed? Bilbo was almost a little afraid to meet the eyes of the rather amused looking doctor who was staring down at the pair of them, her long red hair pulled back in a braid.

“I, umm…”

She smiled as he nudged at Thorin’s shoulder, trying to rouse him, clearly biting back a chuckle; Bilbo supposed that it was a little amusing, finding two grown men curled around each other like cats, and he shoved once more at Thorin, who seemed to have no desire to wake up from the pleasant sleep he had finally found.

“Wake up,” Bilbo muttered, as he smiled at the doctor. “Sorry about this.”

She shook her head, her long braid swinging.

“You know,” she said, “this really isn’t the oddest thing I have ever walked in on in this hospital, so I wouldn’t worry.”

Thorin nuzzled against the softness just above the jut of Bilbo’s hip- he was slow to wake, as Bilbo had learnt since sharing a bed with him- and he could not stop himself from pushing Thorin’s hair around the curve of his ear with two fingers, tugging gently at his lobe, running the line of his thumb along his cheek before tapping it, gently, with his fingers. Thorin’s eye cracked open, looking up at him, and he made a low, mumbling noise, part way between contentment and complain.

“Sorry,” Bilbo said, gently. “But it is time to get up.”

Thorin frowned, and burrowed his face deeper into the line between Bilbo’s stomach and pelvis, his breath warm against his skin.

Bilbo entirely missed the way that the doctor was looking at them, her hand reaching to press against her mouth to supress a noise, perhaps of surprise or else perhaps of some warm pleasure at seeing such open and honest affection between the two.

“I am sorry,” the doctor said, the bright bell of laughter in her voice now, clearly no longer able to suppress her amusement. “But I really do need to run a couple of tests, Mr Baggins, before we can start thinking about discharging you. They shouldn’t take too long, I promise.”

Thorin’s hands tightened around him as he heard the voice, now awake enough for it to register. Bilbo could almost feel the warmth of Thorin’s blush against his own skin, and he could certainly see the red of his blush along his ears now; he grinned despite himself and despite his own embarrassment at the situation.

“Would you mind giving us a minute?” he asked, and she shot him a knowing smile, although she also rolled her eyes a little.

“You’re lucky I have someone else that I need to check on,” she replied, slipping out of the door. “I’ll be back, in a few minutes.”

Bilbo started laughing almost as soon as the door closed, and Thorin groaned.

“I’m too old to be made to feel like a teenager, caught in bed by their parents,” he muttered, as Bilbo pulled gently at his hair, guiding him up. He propped himself up on his elbow and Bilbo twisted, leaning down a little, and kissed his nose.

“Morning,” he said, and Thorin hummed his agreement, pushing up off the bed to press a swift kiss against Bilbo’s mouth.

“Though,” Thorin answered, his voice a little hoarse, “It may be closer to afternoon.”

Bilbo nodded, glancing to the window before swinging his legs and slipping out of bed, stretching out as his eyes ran across the table, the vases standing on it, and the array of flowers that poured from their curling necks; yellow-whites and orange-golds, the slight mottle, here and there, of browns and purples; the light caught them, glowing through the petals, making them bright against the glass, the dark green of their stems.

He would have to think of places to put them, he realised, with a smile. One for the kitchen counter, another for the coffee table in the kitchen, one in the hallway- and then where would the rest go? The stairwell, the cubby hole by the back door, the windowsill by the front; one by his bed, and then there was a flush of heat across his cheeks- the tulips, they would be the ones to sit there, so he could see them when he woke.

“Do you think you’ll be able to go home soon?” came Thorin’s voice, a little stronger now as he sat up properly in the bed, and Bilbo nodded, a little thoughtfully, as he took a step towards the table, running careful fingertips along the feather-lightness of the petals.

“In a few hours, probably,” he said, shooting a small smile over his shoulder. “Don’t worry, you won’t have to wait around for months this time -” Bilbo cut himself off as he caught sight of the clock hanging above the door to the room, both hands pointing almost directly upwards.

“Shit!”

Thorin pulled himself to the side of the bed, the sheets wrinkling around him, his mouth turning downwards as he stared at him in concern.

“Alright?”

“Lotho!”

“No, Thorin,” he said, a small smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “What is it?”

Bilbo shook his head, though his own mouth twitched a little.

“Lotho turned up at the house yesterday,” he said, his hands fisting and relaxing at his sides. “He- never mind, it doesn’t matter why, he just needed someone to talk to, I think. I promised him I’d meet him outside his summer school today, for lunch. He’ll wonder where I am.”

He rubbed at his forehead, lines of worry pulling at his features.

“I wanted to ask him how his new classes were- I changed him from maths to an art class, it was what he really wanted to do- he’s doing lessons at that community centre, the one on the riverfront, near where we ate the other week?”

Thorin nodded, dimly remembering having gone past the place before, and his voice was soft as he replied.

“You’re too good to be true sometimes, you know that?”

Bilbo snorted, half-turned back towards him now, the bud of one unopened freesia in his hand, gently cradling it. “Hardly.”

“The boy’s parents stole your house-”

“But he didn’t,” Bilbo cut across, and though his voice was light there was a certain edge of seriousness to his voice. “You can’t hold a child responsible for the actions of his parents- you can’t just hand out guilt where and when you like it, you know.”

A small frown tugged at Thorin’s forehead, as if perhaps he disagreed, just a little, but he did not protest.

“I’ll go,” he offered instead. “If you want me to. I’ll go tell him where you are, and why you’re not there. I can pick you up fresh clothes as well, if you like.”

Bilbo was about to protest, to tell him that he did not need Thorin’s help, that it would be fine, that no amount of coddling, no matter how well-intentioned, was going to magically undo him falling just the day before; but the words caught in his throat as he remembered Frerin’s own from the night before.

“Thank you,” he replied after a moment, watching the wash of relief roll across Thorin’s expression as he realised that Bilbo was going to let him, that there was something active he could do to help rather than sit in the hospital and wait. “That would mean a lot, if you don’t mind?”

“I don’t,” he said, his voice low, and then he stood from the edge of the bed where he had been seated, and a sudden, awkward silence fell over them as they watched each other cautiously, as the weight of the night before seemed to occur to them only then, the bright midday light having kept it at bay before now.

Bilbo rubbed at the back of his neck, and turned back to the flowers again.

Thorin stared at the floor, then the door, before his eyes settled on the line of Bilbo’s shoulders.

“I am…” he began, before his words failed him. “Last night, I didn’t mean-”

“I know,” Bilbo replied, “you don’t have to apologise again. I know you were upset.”

Thorin laughed, and it was a little hollow. “Upset? Perhaps, though that is not the word I thought to use.”

“No?”

“I was afraid.”

Bilbo turned then, and opened his arms, and Thorin stepped into his embrace gratefully, quickly, wrapping himself around the smaller man like a man afraid of drowning might to a piece of driftwood, as if Bilbo were the one thing that might keep him afloat.

“I know,” Bilbo said, against Thorin’s throat. “But everything is alright.”

Thorin just nodded.

“Did you mean the other thing that you said, last night?” Bilbo asked, and though he did not explain what he was talking about the thrum of tension that ran through Thorin arms made it quite clear that the other man understood what he was referring to.

There was a pause, and Bilbo bit his lip, half-convinced that Thorin was going to demand if Bilbo too had meant what he had said instead of answering, if he would want the confirmation that Bilbo actually did love him before daring to admit the same, but then a kiss was pressed against his crown, fingers were twisting in the fabric of the hospital gown, around Bilbo’s hips, and Thorin’s voice was warm against his hair.

“Yes,” he answered, turning his head to rest his cheek against the top of Bilbo’s head. “I didn’t mean to tell you that way, though.”

Bilbo huffed a small, quiet laugh as he pulled back, nudging at Thorin’s chin with his cheek, lifting his face to see him properly. There was a slight flush of pink across the bridge of Thorin’s nose, and Bilbo reached up to cup his cheek.

“I meant it, too,” he said, his voice quiet, and he might have said something more, might have said it again, but then Thorin ducked down a fraction, his arms wrapping around Bilbo’s hips and lifting him, just a little, so his feet skimmed the floor and Thorin’s face was pressed against his sternum, hiding whatever current of emotions was running through his eyes from view.

Bilbo laughed, and though his head hurt and his shoulders ached from awkward sleeping positions, though he was still a little dizzy and his body tired, he felt happy, far happier, he thought, than he had any real right to be. Thorin span them in a slow and lazy circle, and then again in another, and he muttered something against Bilbo’s chest that he did not quite hear, though the warmth of the words came through clear enough.

“Off with you,” he said, as Thorin put him back on the ground. “Go on, before the doctor comes back and throws you out herself.”

“I’ll be back,” Thorin promised. “In an hour, maybe two. Is there anything else you need?”

“Clothes would be good, I think, but otherwise- no, wait,” Bilbo answered, something suddenly occurring to him. “We need vases, to get the flowers home- we can’t take the ones from the hospital home. Here.” He pulled out of Thorin’s arms before fishing his keys out of the pile of his clothes from the day before, stacked on the bedside table. “There are vases in the cupboard above the sink, if you don’t mind?”

Thorin rolled his eyes.

“You want me to bring vases for all of them?” he asked. “No, don’t answer, I know you do.”

He took hold of the back of Bilbo’s head, gently, and pulled him in for a quick kiss.

“I’ll be back soon,” he promised, “and then we can go home.”

 _We?_ thought Bilbo, something warm flaring in his chest at the idea, but Thorin was gone before he could say anything in reply.


	37. Chapter 37

“Can I come and see him?”

Thorin shook his head.

“Not today- he’s still in the hospital.”

Lotho chewed on his lip, inclining his head in agreement, though he still looked a little dispirited.

“Tomorrow, then?”

Thorin nodded, a little hesitantly.

“I’ll ask him.”

Lotho looked at his feet, shuffling a little, uncomfortable in the presence of this strange and striking stranger.

“Will you give him this?” he asked, not quite meeting Thorin’s eye.

He held out a piece of paper in his paint-stained hands, holding it by the corner, face down to the ground, and as Thorin reached it jerked, just a little, away from his grasp.

“Careful with it,” Lotho said, his voice quiet and a little embarrassed. “It’s still not dry.”

“I will be,” Thorin promised, and Lotho backed away a little as he looked at it. “Do you do art classes here?”

Lotho nodded, and his eyes were suddenly bright with excitement. “I started today. Uncle Bilbo signed me up for them.”

“Of course he did,” Thorin replied, still staring at the painting before he let out a sigh. “I’ll let him know you want to see him, and we’ll see what we can do, alright?”

Lotho nodded, rubbing at his nose, and with a short, flustered nod in Thorin’s direction darted back to the door of the community centre.

Alone now, Thorin smiled down at the painting in his hands as he made his way back to his car. Drawn with surprising skill for a nine year-old boy, there on the paper was a watercolour of Bilbo’s house, done with more detail than he would’ve expected; from the flowers underneath the front windows to the brass shine of the knocker on the front door, nothing was out out place.

And there a face, looking outwards through the window, and for all that Lotho was clearly still a little unpractised the person was easily recognisable, though perhaps that was simply because Thorin himself had spent so many long hours looking at, and thinking about it, in person.

He placed the painting face up on the seat next to him, casting one last affectionate glance at the small painting of Bilbo’s face, staring out of his home, where he belonged, before he left again.

 

\--

 

Bilbo was a little surprised when someone knocked on his hospital door, only a while after Thorin had left; his doctor was shining a light in his eyes, and he assumed that Thorin must have forgotten something when he called out for them to enter. Instead, he was faced with the remaining Durin clan, from chubby Kili, waving his hands around in Dis’ arms, to a rather tired looking Frerin, who still managed to shoot him a warm and friendly smile despite the bags under his eyes.

“We’re not staying long,” Vivi said, putting down a rather promising looking brown paper bag on the table. “Bloody hell, how did you end up with so many flowers so quickly?”

The doctor grinned, though Bilbo was rather sure that she didn’t think he could see.

“Umm…” was his rather intelligent reply, and Frerin rolled his eyes.

“Thorin,” was his answer, before the doctor straightened up, finishing the examination, and offered him a small smile.

“Hi,” she said, and Frerin stared.

“Oh,” he replied, before he suddenly grinned, wide and familiar. “I didn’t realise you were on shift this afternoon.”

The doctor tucked a loose strand of her hair behind her ear, and Bilbo found himself rather grateful for the sudden bright spark of interest in Dis’ eyes, distracting her from the rather embarrassing array of flowers that Thorin had bought him. Vivi simply waved at the bag, clearly deciding that today was not the day for her to get involved with either one of these unfolding stories, be it Thorin's flowers or Frerin and the doctor's acquaintance.

“Lunch,” Vivi told him, with a grin, as Kili grabbed hold of the doctor’s braid, staring up at her with fascination.

“Buh?” he asked, and she smiled down at him, waving a little as he tugged on her hair.

“Hello,” she said, gently. “You must be Kili, I’ve heard a lot about you,”

“Gah?” the babe replied, before struggling out of his mother’s arms and reaching quite firmly for the doctor, grabbing hold of her neck and latching on, refusing to let go.

“Oh,” said Dis, as the doctor took hold of the baby, suspended half-way between them. “Sorry, Kili doesn’t normally warm to people that quickly. He must really like you.”

She smiled, and kissed the infant’s forehead, before carefully extracting him and handing him back over to his mother.

“He’s beautiful,” she told Dis, before tapping Kili on the nose. “We’ll play next time, okay little one? But I have rounds to finish, and your friend here and _his_ friend have held me up long enough.”

“Muh?” Kili said, and she kissed his forehead again.

“Bye bye!” she said, and the baby waved at her. “It was nice to meet you all,” she said, smiling around the group, before turning towards the door. They all stared for a moment at Frerin, but before they could quiz him he caught hold of her wrist and let her tow him out the room, giving them a sheepish glance before the door shut behind the pair of them.

“So _that’s_ the girlfriend,” Dis said thoughtfully. “Hmm.”

Bilbo rolled his eyes, and stuck his tongue out at Fili, who was lolling against Vivi’s legs, looking a little bored.

“Go on then,” he said, smiling. “You’re nosy buggers, go after them, I won’t judge you.”

To his surprise, Dis leant over and pressed a kiss against his cheek, before settling down on the bed, depositing the still-wriggling Kili on the sheets between the both of them.

“Nah,” she said. “We can torment Frerin any time. We need to look after you, now.”

Bilbo smiled, a little shyly, and settled back against the pillows again.

“Are you sure?”

Vivi huffed, and thrust the brown paper bag, still smelling appealingly of food, against his chest.

“Shut up,” she said, a smile playing about her eyes. “That’s what we’re here for.”

 

\--

 

“I don’t know,” said Bilbo, running a hand along the wallpaper. “I might just paint over it.”

Thorin frowned down at the rust-coloured blood stain on the kitchen wall, left when Bilbo had come stumbling through to find his phone. He had offered to wash it off, seeing the strange look that had passed over Bilbo's face as he had caught sight of it, though it might have taken a little effort, but to his surprise Bilbo seemed quite certain that he would do otherwise.

“Oh?” Thorin asked, raising an eyebrow questioningly, and Bilbo found himself nodding.

“You know,” he said, thoughtfully, settling back against the kitchen counters. “I haven’t done anything to the house since my parents died. Literally, nothing, other than buying new sheets and cleaning and the like. My father’s pipe is still on his bedside table. I still use my mother’s kitchen stuff, even though the handles on the saucepans are all wobbly and the spatula is honestly bent beyond recognition.”

Thorin seemed to hear that there was something odd about his voice, because he took a step closer, his fingers against Bilbo’s wrist for a slow, comforting moment.

“I might re-do the whole house,” he continued, a little thoughtfully. “Brighten it up, a little. Put away a few things. Redecorate. Throw away some of the old, worn-out furniture. I’d like a sofa in the kitchen, too, for when we have family over.”

“When we have family over?” Thorin echoed, and Bilbo rubbed at the back of his head.

“I mean,” he said, awkwardly, “when I have family over. Or when I have you and your family over. Or just you over. Or... people.”

Thorin nodded, his voice low and thoughtful. “When _we_ have family over,” he repeated, but this time more forcefully, as if trying to communicate some message to Bilbo that he could not quite manage to spell out loud. “Good idea.”

“Mmhmm,” Bilbo replied, his fingers tracing the dried blood again, a little unsure how to progress along that line, so returning instead to his previous train of thought. “This whole house, really- it’s like I’m living in the past still, isn’t it? With my parents’ things and my grandmother’s embroidery and the like. And I do want to keep that. But I think it is time I made my own stamp on the place too. It's time for a new chapter.”

Thorin’s fingers found his, linking in carefully, and Bilbo shot him a small, fond look. 

"The flowers look beautiful," he told him, glancing at the freesias which had found their way to the island in the kitchen. They had arrived back just a little time ago, after Thorin had returned and he had been discharged, with clothes, vases, and a slightly damp painting which had already been granted pride-of-place on his mantelpiece. They had not seen the doctor or Frerin again after they had disappeared, and Dis and Vivi had left with the boys not long after Thorin had returned. The day had a certain displacement to it, he couldn't help but think as he let go of Thorin's hand and padded around the island to get his glass of water; they had slept and woken at odd times, were doing off schedule, and everything felt just a little peculiar- coming home to the sight of blood smeared against his wallpaper had done nothing to help with that feeling, either. 

But Thorin was here, his presence enough to keep him feeling himself, always close to hand for him to reach out to. 

“Do you have work to go to?” Bilbo asked, holding on to the counter top as if he were afraid his legs might give out underneath him. The CD that had been on the background ground to a silence between them, and everything suddenly felt very still, very focused.

“I suppose,” Thorin said, but he made to move to leave, gave no word of goodbye. In fact, he appeared almost rooted to the kitchen floor, not even shuffling his feet.

The silence hung between them like a great weight, almost tangible, and for a moment Bilbo felt as if he were standing on the edge of some great precipice, wavering right on the place where land meets air, but he did not feel afraid; rather, some strange exhilaration was coursing through him, some anticipation, though he was not sure what it was he was waiting for.

He and Thorin simply stared at each other, with half-smiles between them, and it felt for a moment as if the silence would go on between them forever, unbroken and unchanging: he could feel the sudden press of all the words that he wanted to say to Thorin hovering, and they were so close to coming out, but he was still just a little afraid, and-

“Oh,” Thorin said, breaking the tension between them, his hands jerking as if he had forgotten that he could move as he reached into his pocket. “Before I forget, I’ve still got your keys.”

Bilbo nodded, half-heartedly, as the clink of the ring of keys cut through the silence, but then he found himself frowning, a sudden fear seizing hold of him until he couldn’t help but protest.

“No,” he said, and then Thorin was looking at him a little strangely, his brow creasing into a confused frown.

“I mean,” he continued, and he ran a hand through his hair, trying to work out exactly what it was he had been going to say.

“I have three sets,” he said, finally, all of a rush, and though he knew that there were far more eloquent ways he could have phrased himself, none of them came to mind. “Three sets, and that means I have one spare, and I don’t really know what to do with it otherwise, so I was wondering, if you wanted, if you might want to… keep them.”

“Keep them?” Thorin asked, and there was a flicker of something unreadable through his eyes, something that might have been hope and might have been something else, something dark and bright all at the same time. “In case you have another accident, you mean?”

“Well, yes,” replied Bilbo, before steeling his courage, just a little. “Though I am not planning on having any more. But also, just to… have. To come in and out, I mean. When you’re here. Because, the thing is, I’d quite like to have you here, quite a lot, as often as you’d want, in fact maybe _all_ of the time, because I _like_ waking up with you and I _like_ going to sleep next to you and I _like_ all the hours in between, I like hearing your key in the door when you come home from work and having coffee with you in the morning, and I know it is a little ridiculous to ask you this soon, and I know you probably won’t even want to, but-”

“My contract is due for renewal in two months,” Thorin interrupted, his voice low and burning with barely restrained feeling. “Something like that, anyway. That’s enough time for you to clear out some space for my things, right?”

Bilbo nodded, all of a sudden feeling a little light headed.

“More than.”

“But,” Thorin continued, reaching for his hand across the counter a little clumsily, knocking the head off one flower along the way. “I’d quite like to try that whole waking up with you every day thing before then, if you’ll have me.”

“We can start tomorrow,” Bilbo said, and he wondered if he sounded as overwhelmingly happy as he felt. “No time like the present.”

“No,” Thorin agreed, and then he was smiling, that wide and ridiculous smile that shone only rarely, and something almost hurt in Bilbo’s chest at the sight of it.

“Alright?” Thorin asked, and Bilbo felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end at the sound of it, at the warm weight of his tone, and he nodded, his mouth curling upwards.

“Wonderful,” he replied, “But if you don’t come around here and kiss me right now, then I might start to have some problems.”

Thorin hummed, and he came around the small island, not letting go of Bilbo’s hand the whole way. “We wouldn’t want that now, would we?”

And then Bilbo was in his arms, and his hands were on Thorin’s shoulders, and they were kissing in the breeze from the back door that was making the flowers shiver in their vase, the dim sunlight pouring in around them, and everything, quite suddenly, was _right._

“Love you,” he murmured against Thorin’s mouth, and the other man let out a slow, lazy noise, pulling him closer against his chest, his fingers digging in to his hips, just a little.

“Love you too,” Thorin replied, before kissing him again.

And if this was it, Bilbo thought, as Thorin's hands found his skin and he felt his eyes slide shut, if this was to be his life from now on, in the warmth of his house wrapped up in the arms of a man who would give him the world if only he could lift it, then there were far worse places to end up; if it was his fate in life to have met Thorin, to have been dragged from the comfort of his life to an entirely new sort of happiness, then so be it. 

He couldn't imagine anything better. 

_The End._


	38. Chapter 38

**Epilogue**

_Nine weeks later_

“Is that the last of it?”

Thorin nodded, and Dwalin groaned as he rubbed at his lower back, glaring at the final box of books that he had carried in and deposited unceremoniously on the floor by the new bookshelves that lined one wall of the once cramped living room, now extended into the parlour where Bilbo’s mother had once done her flower arranging and embroidery, a room that Bilbo had barely stepped in since her death. His house had been full of little rooms like these, a maze of cubby-holes and nooks, and though many still remained a fair number had been knocked through, making rooms bigger and brighter, all the better for a comfortable home.

“Good,” he complained, and Thorin nudged his shoulder against Dwalin’s in silent thanks, before bending and picking the first book from the top, a large reference collection on metals and their properties, before placing it decisively on one case.

“Done,” he said, and Dwalin laughed.

“If that’s all the unpacking you’re going to do, we might’ve well just left them all at your old place.”

Thorin shrugged, a smile pulling at his mouth.

“Later,” he replied.  

Some distant cousin of Thorin’s, a burly red-haired man with a son not much younger than Kili, had been the one to do the renovations, overseeing the removal or sale of unwanted furniture and chivvying the builders and decorators who worked for him to get the project done in the shortest length of time; the hallway still needed painting and the floor in the dining room was still waiting for a final coat of varnish, but otherwise it had been finished by the time that Thorin’s contract had been up. They’d put off moving the bulk of his stuff over before then to save on space during the renovation, a practical decision, but he couldn’t help but be a little relieved to see his own possessions here now, couldn’t help but look forward to mixing them in with Bilbo’s, to making his own place here, to blurring the lines between two separate lives and slotting together, the two of them, pressed comfortably close.

Dwalin must have caught some flicker of that expectation on Thorin’s face, because he rolled his eyes at him as he padded back out to the hallway to find the others.

“Sap,” he called out, over his shoulder, and Thorin just shrugged, his face pulling into a proper smile as he took a second book out of one of Bilbo’s boxes, lining the thin volume on plant symbolism alongside his own.

“Shut up,” he replied, and Dwalin gave him a half-fond, half-exasperated look as Thorin joined him.

Dwalin cast an eye about the hallway, the old faded wallpaper above the oak panelling removed but still not repainted.

“When are they coming to finish?”

Thorin shrugged. “They’re starting another project,” he replied. “Gloin said he’ll send someone over when he can – he fit us in between jobs as it was, he doesn’t owe us any haste.”

Dwalin nodded, running a hand over the plasterwork.

“You and me can do it tomorrow, if you like,” he said, idly, and Thorin looked at him, a little surprised. Dwalin caught the look and shuffled, a little uncomfortably. “Doesn’t do any good to leave it waiting,” he explained. “If you’re gonna be living here, we might as well make it perfect.”

“You sure?”

Dwalin just shrugged.

“Got’a make a house a home, you know,” he said, as close as he would ever get to voicing his approval out loud, and Thorin nudged him again, a little more gently this time.

“That’d be good,” he answered, and then Fili was barrelling through a doorway and into his legs, a feather duster in his hands that he was no doubt using to hinder more than help. Kili was right behind him, still a little wobbly on his feet, but half-running after his brother with noises of protest, something red smeared over his mouth.

Thorin scooped up the older brother even as Dwalin bent to lift the younger, and he caught the tell-tale smell of raspberries and cream as Fili laughed, reaching over to try and dust his Uncle’s face.

He spluttered a little as the feathers got up his nose, pushing it gently away.

“What have you been up to?”

“Uncle Bilbo says it is time for lunch, and to hurry up or he’ll let Uncle Frerin eat it all without you!” he announced, pouting a little as Thorin wrestled the feather duster from his hands. “He let us help finish the pie!”

Definitely raspberries then, Thorin thought as Dwalin wiped the smear of red juice from Kili’s chin with the end of his sleeve.

“Let’s go steal it all back, hey?” Thorin replied, and Fili nodded, wiggling out of Thorin’s arms and jumping back to the ground, careering off down the hallway again. Kili made a little, sad noise as he watched Fili disappear, but he made no effort to get out of the hold of Dwalin’s arms, resting his head against one broad shoulder and stuffing his fist in his mouth.

The kitchen was warm between the oven and the sunlight, and the new back door was open (despite his best attempts, Thorin had not been able to fix the former door after he had jimmied it open, the old wood splintering off and crumbling beyond any feasible repair, and hadn't Bilbo laughed when he had realised that Thorin had prised his back door open with a screwdriver in his worry, before kissing him affectionately for caring enough to do so). Fili was perched on the bar stools tucked under the island, old reclaimed ones from a turn of the century bar that Thorin had found and re-varnished himself, and Frerin and Dis were curled up in the armchairs tucked into the nook that they had knocked into – Bilbo had wanted a sofa, but they hadn’t quite been able to fit it in alongside every kitchen gadget and appliance known to man that he had wanted all the more.

The armchairs had been a nice compromise, and many a day Thorin came home to find Bilbo already perched in one, his feet slung over the sides as something cooked in the oven or on the hob, a pen tucked behind his ear as he worked on a draft or else a book propped open on his lap; far nicer, though, was the fact that regardless of how busy or distracted he might be, he always called out to Thorin as he arrived home from work.

He was growing used to that sound, to soft call of his name meeting him at the door, as warm and welcoming as any embrace, the words ‘welcome home’ never failing to drag off the weight of the day, leaving him lighter as he kicked off his shoes before going to find the source of that voice and kissing him, quite firmly, in greeting.

“There you are,” said Bilbo, from over by the kettle, where he was pouring hot water into the large, glazed teapot that had been his father’s favourite – not all his parent’s possessions had gone, far from it, but the ones that had remained all had a real significance to him, warm memories attached. “All done?”

Dwalin nodded, popping Kili down on the floor and glaring at his cousins.

“Nice to know we’ve been doing all the heavy lifting, whilst you two are sat in here.”

Dis smiled at him sweetly as Kili levered himself up and tottered over to Bilbo, his arms open as if ready to be picked up: still busy with brewing the tea and pulling out delicate tea-cups, he plucked a raspberry from a bowl and popped it into Kili’s mouth instead.

An arm wrapped around his middle, another going to muss the fine, dark hair on Kili’s head, and Bilbo stroked a hand lightly over Thorin’s hand for a moment before returning to his previous task, fingers finding the curve of his ring.

Thorin’s ring had disappeared some weeks earlier, the bare space between his hand and the first joint of his left middle finger conspicuously bare, but when Bilbo had asked all he had said was that he had left it at work. When it made a reappearance several days later he was sure that it looked different, either a little thinner or perhaps not quite as broad as it had been, but he could not quite put his finger on _what_ had changed, or why it would have _._ A lingering suspicion had remained, but despite his curiosity Bilbo had not pressed the matter.

A nose nuzzled at the curls of his hair, back to full length again finally, and he smiled as he pressed his side close against Thorin’s chest for a moment.

“So you’re all moved in now?”

Thorin nodded, and kissed his hair.

“I am.”

“Finally,” Bilbo commented, and Thorin held him just a little closer for a moment.

“Can I help?”

He shook his head, the fragrant steam from the teapot dancing around his face as he took a deep breath.

“I have something for you,” Thorin murmured against his ear, quiet enough that none of his family could hear him. “Later, though.”

Bilbo nodded, and reached over, dragging his finger through a nearby bowl of vanilla cream, that had been made to fill the cake he had made, and held it out; Thorin took it between his lips, dragging his teeth gently over the skin until Bilbo inhaled just a little sharply and Thorin smiled, looking a little smug. He pulled his hand back, and tapped lightly at Thorin’s cheek.

“Ridiculous,” he told him, quietly and fondly. “Utterly ridiculous.”

Dwalin cleared his throat quite loudly, but Bilbo was so used now to feeling embarrassment in front of Thorin’s family that he didn’t even blush, anymore; he just rolled his eyes at them and returned to serving up the lunch he had bribed them into helping with, occasionally sneaking both young nephews raspberries dipped in cream as he did.

“Were we as bad as that?” Vivi asked Frerin, stroking Fili's hair back from his forehead gently; Frerin's reply sounded a little pained.

“No, you were worse. And you still _are_ as bad.”

The family left them to unpack not long after they had finished off the roast chicken and salad, Fili and Kili both a little sticky from the raspberry bakewell pie they had helped to finish off, covered in liberal amounts of vanilla cream. Bilbo’s cat uncurled himself from the top of the fridge not long after, having learnt early on, once Hamfast had dropped him back around to his owner, that avoiding the often grasping hands of young children was a good idea.

He hissed at Thorin before butting at his leg with his head, and padding out of the kitchen.

“Your cat still hates me,” Thorin said, with a small smile, as he finished loading the dishwasher.

“He’ll come around,” Bilbo said, placing the last of the washed-up teacups away. Thorin caught him by the waist as he passed, pulling him over and down on to one of the armchairs.

“You’ve been saying that for weeks,” he told the other man, as Bilbo curled up in his lap, quite content not to try and escape. Bilbo waved him off.

“Well,” he answered, as Thorin’s arms found their way under his shirt. “He’ll just have to get used to it. You’re all moved in, as of today.”

The corners of Thorin’s eyes crinkled a little, warm and amused.

“I can’t get rid of you now,” teased Bilbo, and Thorin shook his head.

“You’re stuck with me.”

“What a shame,” he said, twisting in Thorin’s lap to press a kiss against his jaw. “Such a pity.”

“Hmm,” Thorin mumbled as Bilbo kissed his way to his mouth. “You sound devastated.”

“Utterly,” Bilbo replied, his eyes half-closed as Thorin’s kissed him back. “Keep kissing me, and I might just forgive you.”

Thorin, however, pulled away, just a little, and shook his head.

“I will,” he said, and his voice was low, his eyes tracing the curve of Bilbo’s mouth a little regretfully, as if he would much prefer to continue immediately.  He stroked a long line along Bilbo’s neck with his knuckles. “But I’ve got something for you, first.”

Bilbo sighed, but he was smiling just a little at the same time. Thorin reached for his pocket, shifting Bilbo a little on his lap as he did so, but before he could pull out whatever it was he stilled, looking almost worried, his mouth twisting in concern.

“Do you…” he trailed off, and Bilbo ran a hand through his hair, his fingers running along the curve of his ear. “Do you think we’ve been moving fast?”

Bilbo blinked, and his head turned to one side.

“No,” he replied, without hesitation. “Well, I supposed _yes,_ at the same time. But I don’t think there is some formula for a relationship that everyone should follow, you know. Every one is going to be a little different.”

Thorin nodded, but he still looked uncertain.

“If,” Bilbo continued, resting his head against Thorin’s shoulder. “If you’re asking if I think that there might be a problem with it, when it comes to me and you and what’s going to happen, then my answer is still no. I love you, you know, and I don’t think I’d be happy without you. And at the end of the day, that’s all that really matters, isn’t it?”

Thorin nodded, and he reached into his pocket quickly, as if to stop himself from running out of courage. At first, what was held out on the palm of his hand confused Bilbo a little with its familiarity, but then he realised that the band around Thorin’s finger was still in place, where it had always been ( _but for those few days a couple of weeks or go_ , his mind reminded him). This was, in fact, a second ring, a little smaller than Thorin’s, sat in the curve of his palm.

“It’s not…” Thorin trailed off. “It’s not a proposal, or an obligation, or… anything. It’s just…”

Bilbo’s fingers traced the gold, warm from being against Thorin’s skin, presented without fuss. There were the words, the same inscription that ran twice around the inside of Thorin’s ring, but just the once.

“Is it… your parents?”

Thorin nodded, his fingers twitching as if he wanted nothing more than to withdraw his hand, hide what he had made, act as if it had never happened; Bilbo’s surprise was making him flinch, making him uncertain.

“They were two, originally, and… I think they look better as a pair.”

“And… it’s for me?”

“Of course,” replied Thorin, and Bilbo picked it up then, his finger following the fine lines of vines that ran around the outside, the tiny bud of a flower growing from one.

“How on earth did you make something this delicate?” he asked, astonished, as he slipped it on his finger- his middle, just like Thorin’s.

“Practise,” Thorin replied, and then his nose was in Bilbo’s hair and his words were a warm puff of breath against his skin. “I’ve been doing a lot with flowers, recently,” he admitted. “Dwalin thinks it’s hilarious.”

“He would,” Bilbo replied, twisting the ring around his finger thoughtfully.

He pulled back, a little, so that Thorin was forced to look at him.

“Thank you,” he said, and Thorin was trying to avoid his eyes but he wouldn’t let him, he had caught his gaze and now refused to let him look elsewhere. “Why?”

“I…” Thorin shrugged. “It’s just a promise.”

And then Bilbo kissed him, his arms wrapping around Thorin’s neck and holding on, refusing to let go, and he was kissing him like he did their first time, with what felt like more pent up love and hope and fear than one man should be able to hold, and Thorin was holding him, and Bilbo could feel Thorin’s own ring against the skin of his back, warm and close.

 _It might almost be criminal,_ he thought to himself, _to feel this happy, all at once._

“A promise,” he agreed, when he finally pulled back, and Thorin nodded, his gaze impossibly warm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feeling so emotional right now. Bring it in guys, let's hug.
> 
> Message me on tumblr if you want to talk or know more about... well, about anything, really. (northerntrash.tumblr.com) Unfortunately life is a little busy right now, so I don't have time to reply to all your reviews on here like I have been, but thank you all so much for reading, and for all the lovely messages, reviews, art and the like that you've sent- it has been hugely appreciated. Stay safe (and please try to avoid tripping over your cats or slipping in the shower). (✿◠‿◠)


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